Six Weeks
by SignsofSam
Summary: Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.
1. Chapter One: Six Weeks

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** Another new story, I know. I have this one planned out, so hopefully I'll complete it (unlike _Ties that Bind_, which I feel will remain forever unfinished). It will only be a few chapters, and I only have two chapters written, and school is murdering me because finals are coming up so…don't expect this to be updated but, like, once a week or so.

This story contains some mature content, and is rated "T", so if you think I should bump it up, please let me know!

I love reviews, so please, read, enjoy, and review!

**One: Six Weeks**

Sam Winchester watched the snow fall from the class room, too focused on the window to hear anything to teacher said to him. It wasn't like school mattered anymore; it wasn't like anything mattered anymore.

Dean had been missing for six weeks. Six miserable, long weeks since he hadn't picked up Sam from school.

Five weeks and five days since his dad reported him missing to the cops.

Five weeks and four days since the detective suggested that Sam's brother had simply run away, only seeing the way they moved and the way John was and only thinking that there wasn't anything in their family worth staying for. Apparently, he couldn't see the bond Dean and Sam shared.

Five weeks and a day since they had gotten a call from Bobby, sending his condolences, offering to come out. Five weeks and a day since John had accepted his help.

Four weeks and six days since Bobby had arrived and John had broken down in front of him, tears free flowing, knees giving out as he crumbled in front of the man, begging him and pleading with him and saying _he'd give anything_. Four weeks and six days since Sam had realized his father felt something besides hate for demons and monsters-he felt love for his sons.

Four weeks since Bobby had left; there were no leads.

Three weeks and six days since Detective Lewis had called wanting to interview them again; he had told them that he was different from the other detectives, that he didn't believe Dean had run away.

Three weeks since they had found Dean's beat-up leather jacket and the necklace he had never taken off, found by detectives combing the area near the high school. And interest was renewed.

Two weeks and two days since John had stopped talking to his youngest son, throwing himself strictly into work or his drink, whichever was better at the time. Two weeks and two days since Sam had stopped caring at school, stopped trying to be his best, despite knowing that Dean would be disappointed in him.

Two weeks since Sam had stood in the abandoned field behind his house and screamed and screamed until he felt better inside.

Twelve days since Lewis had called with his usual _no news is good news_ bullshit. All parties knew he was just saving face.

Six days since Sam had gotten detention for fighting. Some kid had called his brother a reject and said only a loser would miss him. The boy was sixteen, Dean's age, and Sam felt his brother would be proud of the very broken nose he had left the kid with.

Four days since the social worker visited. Neither of the Winchesters cared to talk to her, and so she left with no evidence of abuse or neglect but a note on a file about bad coping mechanisms. Even she didn't have the heart to be the mean one.

Three days since Sam stopped imagining Dean would come home in one piece.

Two days since Sam had given up hope.

One day since Lewis' phone call, his news spiel, and still nothing to report.

Sam Winchester sighed, trying to shift his focus back to his teacher as his name was called, but his mind kept turning back to his brother. He couldn't help it.

---

The door opened, and light flooded the cold cement room, making Dean cringe and push back far into his corner, though there was nowhere to hide in the room. He had been in it for six weeks, in the dirty, disgusting room, hands bound with twine or something like that, attached to a tie cable that came in through one wall and out another, giving him just enough leeway to reach the crude toilet and sink. His arms remained uncomfortable in the sitting position, with the tie cable not giving enough leeway for his arms to rest his arms in his lap.

It had been six weeks since he had been walking to get Sam and someone got the drop on him. He had been jerked back by his jacket and had struggled out of it, twisting to punch the man before a large hand wrapped around his neck and he was punched in the kidneys, felling him. The man jerked him forward, and he felt the cord of the necklace break, and then there was nothing as a rag pressed over his nose and mouth.

And he was gone.

He woke in the cement room, with his hands tied. He woke with a chair in front of him, a man in that chair. Not old, not young, not tall, not short-just so non-descript it made Dean cringe. The man reached out a hand to stroke the boy's cheek and Dean flinched, walking back as far as he could, the corner that had become his home.

"I've been waiting for you to wake up, Dean," the man said, standing up, walking towards Dean, who's eyes scanned the room, wide and scared, looking for some out. There was none. "Oh, Dean-"

"Get away from me, you bastard," Dean spat out, kicking at the man in lieu of punching, fighting back as much as he could. "I'll kill you if you come near me."

And thus began his battle.

He watched the shadow in the doorway now, trying to pull himself out of his memories. Six weeks, and the man hadn't touched him like Dean knew he wanted to. "I'm going to make you beg, baby," the guy had whispered one night as he petted Dean's hair, like he was a pet. "You're going to be a good kitten."

Dean had kneed the man as hard as he could, satisfied with himself as the man keeled over. "Over my dead body," he had said, his fight and strength renewed, still kicking even after the man had slapped him hard.

That was the day the man started withholding food. First for one day at a time, feeding him a meager meal every two days, then two…their little game was now up to five. And Dean wouldn't submit. He wouldn't back down…even after four hungry days. He wasn't about to become some statistic.

The shadow materialized into _The Man_, and Dean's gaze never left him as he came closer, even though he could see the paper plate and his stomach growled. "How's my boy today?" the man asked, putting the paper plate just behind him.

Dean ignored the comment.

He felt the man gripped his hair and jerk his head up. "Answer me."

"I'm in a hellhole," Dean bit out. "With some perverted bastard. How do you think I'm doing?"

"Oh, my poor boy. If only you would be good, if only you would obey, I could treat you so much better. It would be so much better for you." And then he was back to his stroking, this time attempting to get his hand underneath Dean's ratty t-shirt, and Dean did the only thing he could-he bit. He could fill the blood entering his mouth, the rusty smell making him nauseous, bit he didn't let go. He wouldn't.

And then the man smashed his closed fist against Dean's cheek, and he felt something crunch and let go as the pain blossomed from that one spot and spread across his face. The man grabbed his shirt, pulling him forward, making him stand, and then pushed him against the wall.

He tried to stop it. He tried to fight as _The Man_ pressed into him, hands pushing Dean's shoulders back, so tight against him that Dean couldn't move his legs. "This is how it's supposed to be, kitten. You so soft and willing, letting me take care of you. If you would only do that, I could be great for you, kitten. Anything you needed, I could give to you. It could be good."

"You are _sick_! You're a freak!" Dean was desperate and his voice reeked of it, but he didn't care.

And the man seemed to not care, either. His lips were cold and hard and nothing like the girls' ones that Dean had kissed, and he cringed. He felt the man's mouth open, felt the tongue press against his lips, and he felt his heart stop.

It started as the man's arm pressed against his throat, cutting off his air. His eyes opened wide, his mouth parted slightly, and the man took that as a sign, letting up on Dean's throat. He explored, he conquered, and he made Dean want to throw up.

He finally pulled away, a strange smile on his face. "Such a good boy," he whispered to Dean, stroking his face. "My good boy."

"You are one sick fuck," Dean snapped, jerking back from the man. "I'm not your anything! You're some guy who _kidnapped_ me! You locked me in room! You are trying to rape me!"

"Now, now, Dean, my kitten-"

"Stop calling me that! I'm going to get out of here one day and I'm going to kill you. I'm going to make you pay."

The man laughed once, one soft laugh, patting the boy's cheek. "In time, Dean, you'll see that I'm not that bad. That you can love me."

"I. Do Not. Like. Guys. I like girls. Pretty, supple, curvy girls. With big boobs and kicking bods. Not some old, wrinkly washed up pervert who obviously can't find some willing guy, so he kidnaps a teenage. That's just desperate."

Dean expected the first punch, the one that hit his already bruised cheek, but no the second that made him fall. Or the kick that his him in frail ribs, and not the second that sent home the message that _The Man_ wasn't too happy with him.

Finally, it stopped. It was all blissfully silent and he was able to wallow in his pain, even though he could hear the man in the room, picking up something. "Tomorrow, Dean, will see if you know what to do to get food tomorrow.

And thus started their new game.

Dean curled up in a ball-a painful, hurt-filled ball-and cried.

Today, for the first time in six weeks, he wanted to give up on his father, on his brother, and he almost wanted to give in just to make the pain go away.

---

Six weeks and one day, Sam thought as he sat at a lunch table, pushing food around but not eating it.

Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

In a small cement room not five miles from his brother, Dean Winchester's hope was renewed.

He had a plan. And the man with the plan was usually the smart one who came out on top.

Or so he hoped.

He waited patiently for the door to open, eyes never wavering. He had a mission, he was focused, just like his father had taught him to be before a hunt. This was what this was, a hunt. A hunt for freedom and escape. He grinned slightly, feeling the adrenaline course through his body for the first time in six weeks.

He only hoped he was strong enough to see his plan through.

The door opened after what seemed like forever, He saw the shadow, and he stood, sucking in a deep breath as he watched the man place the paper plate behind him once again.

"How's my boy today?" The man's soft voice trickled through, and Dean shivered _You can do this_, he told himself, swallowing. _Sam needs you to do this_.

"I'm ready," he heard himself murmur, but the voice was strange. He swallowed again, trying to get the rest of the words out. "Ready...ready to be your...your kitten."

It was like word vomit, but he got it out without wincing or flinching or giving any indication that he didn't mean the words. He needed them to sound real, and apparently, they did, because the man smiled, a smile that made Dean feel like a trapped little boy, and he desperately wanted to run.

But he didn't. He stood strong as the man approached. "There's my boy," the man replied, hand stroking, like always, but this time, Dean bit back the comment he so wanted to say and stood there, letting the man do as he wanted. "What a good one I have. You've kept me waiting for a long time."

"I...I know," Dean managed to ground out, pushing closer to the man. "I'm sorry."

"A good boy would apologize for all the waiting I've done by giving me a present." He looked down; Dean blanched, but steeled himself inside, kneeling. He jerked on his hands, glancing up to the man behind thick lashes. "Can I have my hands? Please? I'll be...it'll be better that way."

"Give me a kiss and yes, you may." _Damn you_, Dean thought, standing up again and leaning in.

_It's a means to an end, Ace. Man up_. He said it in his best John voice, closing his eyes before he saw any of the damage. He felt the man's lips and he just let go, let that stupid bastard do whatever he wanted. He needed to get his hands free.

It was over finally, and the man pulled away with a wide smile, hand once again stroking. "Good boy, Dean. Such a good, good boy for me. Let's get your hands loose, huh? See what you can do with those beautiful hands of yours'."

_Yes, let's_, Dean snarled in his head as the man slowly unwrapped the twine, for the first time in six weeks, blood began flooding his hands. He flexed and relaxed them a few times before glancing up to the man. "Thank you."

"Oh, kitten-" the man didn't get anymore out as Dean punched him as hard as possible, sending him flying into a wall. He punched the man again, kicked him viciously, a hint of a smirk on his face.

He wanted to stay, to beat him over and over, but he had to get out. He ran out of the room, stumbling in the hallway, but not letting himself fall. He made his way through the house, finally finding a door to the outside world.

A field. Surrounded by a forest. Could he not have good luck at some point in time?

His legs were aching by the time he got to the forest, and he could hear the man in the field, hear his voice taunting Dean, telling him he would get him back. His breath was haggard, but he kept running, kept going, faster and faster and faster. His muscles ached, pain tore through his middle, but he kept going, feeling branches scratch at him and tear at his clothing, but he ignored it all. All he could think about was freedom and Sam and his father.

The forest gave way to a road, and Dean didn't stop to think, didn't stop to consider the consequences, and ran forward, the only thing on his mind the man now exiting the stretch of the forest.

Brakes screeched, smoke rose in the air as a car made contact with him. His mind went blank.

---------

Six weeks, one day. Forty-three days.

Thoughts of the days and weeks and hours raced through Dallas Lewis' mind as he raced towards the hospital, his partner holding on for dear life and trying to contact John Winchester.

He had been hit by a car.

Dean Winchester had been found because a car hit him.

"I knew he was still alive," he muttered to the other man. "God, this poor boy."

His partner hung up his phone. "I still can't get a hold of him. I'll try again in a minute. The guy who hit him said that some man followed him out of the woods but fled back in when the car hit him. There are a couple other witnesses who reported the same. We have officers searching and combing the woods, but nothing so far."

They managed to reach John Winchester as they pulled into the hospital, and Lewis listened to his partner calmly the man, tell him where they were, and comfort him in knowing that, finally, his boy was home safe. Five minutes later, Detective Lewis was walking through the ER to the nurses' station. "I need to talk to the doctor working on Dean Winchester? He was hit by a car."

"Of course. I'll page Doctor Harrison; Winchester's room is 213," the nurse replied, pointing the detectives in the right direction.

The doctor stopped them before they entered the room. "He's not doing good. He does not want anyone near him, no one touching him. We'll wait until his father gets here to try and get a kit done. He's very frightened."

"How much damage did the car do?"

"I can't tell; he's not letting me touch him. He's not letting anybody touch him." John Winchester was only a couple minutes behind the cops and was rushing towards them as the doctor's words left his mouth. "Mr. Winchester-"

"I want to see my son."

"Of course. Mr. Winchester, I need to perform an exam, and right now he's not letting me, so I need you to keep him calm. He got hit by a car; he needs to be examined. We also need to perform a rape kit; he's really not-"

"I'll do whatever you need." John turned to Detective Lewis. "Sam-Sam would be good now. He and Dean are very close; Sam can help."

"We'll pick him up at school," Lewis promised, and John nodded once, following Doctor Harrison into the room.

-------

John's heart broke when he saw his oldest son, a thin shell of the boy who had been with him six weeks ago. "Ace-" he murmured, seeing his son jump, eyes widen when he saw his father. "Buddy-"

"I tried, Dad. I tried to fight. I just got tired," he heard Dean whisper as he approached the boy. John was surprised how he didn't react when he hugged his son, hugged him as tight as he could without hurting him. "I'm so tired-"

"I know, Ace; I need you to hang in a little bit longer, okay? The doctor needs to examine you, to make sure you're all right. I'll stay with you during it all; I won't let anyone hurt you. But they've got to do it."

"No," Dean murmured, shaking a little. "Dad-"

"Son, I need you to be strong and let them do this. If you have damage internally, or broken bones-"

"Fine, but you won't leave?"

"No, son, I won't," John promised, letting out a sigh of relief as he nodded to the doctor. Finally, finally, a small step back to normality.

**----End One----**


	2. Chapter Two: Fallout

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** So, no replies to review because RL has been absolutely _hellish_. Sorry in advance, because I probably won't be replying to any reviews I get for this chapter. Oh, there were a lot of Story Alerts, but only six reviews. If you have time, please review, 'kay? Remember, hellish week, and reviews make my heart pitter-patter. Also, you can have an imaginary _insert-your-favorite-type-of _cookie.

Enjoy!

**Two: Fallout**

Six weeks, one day, twenty hours, and four minutes after Dean Winchester failed to show up at home, John Winchester sat by his hospital bed, rubbing soft circles on his son's pale forearm, where the IV ran into his body. "He's weak," John Winchester murmured to the doctor, running his hand up to push hair off his sleeping son's head. "He hasn't woken up yet."

"He's healing, John," the doctor answered simply. "All his injuries have caught up with him. His bruised pelvis, the hairline fracture on his ilium bone, the internal bleeding…it's all taking its toll, and that's good. It's good for him to rest."

"Can you-will you go over his injuries again? I'm sorry-"

"It's not a problem." The doctor pulled out a couple of X-rays from Dean's folder, putting them up so John could see the pictures of his pelvis, his chest, and his arm. "He was malnourished; he lost about twenty to twenty-five pounds, and so we're going to work with a nutritionist to get him to put on healthy weight again. The car hit him full force around his pelvis, which explains the severe bruising, the fracture on his ilium, the minor bleeding, and we're monitoring the area to make sure there's no reoccurring issues.

"His arms both had severe road rash from where he skidded on the road, and his ulna was broken in two spots; we put in plates and screws at each break to stabilize them; he'll have his cast anywhere from six to eight weeks, but we have to check the damage to his wrists, so he'll probably have to get a new cast every couple weeks. Speaking of the damage, whatever the bastard kept him tied with cut into his wrists about an eight of an inch, very close to severing an artery, and he got an infection; we cleaned out the infection, and we're monitoring them.

"His shoulder was also damaged, popped out of place, but luckily it was a clean displacement and we were able to set it; his arm will have to be in a sling for a month, but his physician may choose to make him wear the sling for the duration of his broken arm.

"Other than that, he had a couple of fractured ribs, some lacerations and bruises, but that's it…that's good, John. This is good."

John stopped listening, looking back at his son, sleeping peacefully for the first time in who knew how long. "He said he hasn't eaten in six days."

"We've been giving him nutrients through the IV; when he wakes up, we'll start him on a semi-hard diet and hopefully he can gain a couple of pounds before he leaves here."

"What about the other…" John got caught up on the word. "test? He said the man didn't, but was he just-"

"It was negative; the man didn't touch him," the doctor reassured John, looking at his young patient. "He's still got some life in him; Drew has quite a bruise from where Dean hit him." John had been forced to leave for the rape kit, and Dean had thrown a fit. "Have you talked to Detective Lewis?"

John smiled wearily, looking at the doctor. "I haven't wanted to leave him, and he certainly doesn't want to talk to anybody. Lewis said he'd get Sam and hopefully with Sam here, Dean will be a little bit more cooperative."

"His life has been hell for the past six weeks, Mr. Winchester; he has every right to be distrustful. But today is day zero again, and I'm not saying it's not going to be tough, but, this is his time of healing, not his time of hell."

"If I ever find the guy who did this to my son, I will cut him into a million pieces and he will never be found." John stopped talking when Dean groaned, eyes blinking. "Hey, buddy."

"Dad," Dean whispered, his voice harsh and scratchy. "Thirsty."

John looked at Doctor Harrison, who nodded, and he poured his son some water. "Here, buddy, you just take a sip; I'll hold the cup." Dean had a little sip before letting go of the straw, shaking his head. "What is it?"

"Hurts…hurts to sip, Dad."

John turned to the doctor. "We can try ice chips," Harrison suggested as the door opened, Sam dropping his book bag at the door as he came in, walking slowly.

"Dean-" he said as he approached the bed. "You're here."

"I am," Dean answered, a slight smile on his face. "Sam."

Sam touched his brother's arm, gently, surprised when Dean's fingers curled around his. "I knew you would come back."

"I knew you wouldn't give up. That's what got me through it-through all of it."

"I'm going to kill the bastard," John murmured to the doctor after he moved from the chair so Sam could sit there, the two brothers in an easy conversation that was sending Dean back to sleep. "For what he did to my son, I'm going to kill him."

"Tell me when and where and I'll help," the doctor responded, patting his patient's father on the back.

-------

Dean glared at Detective Lewis, shaking his head. "No! I didn't and still don't recognize him! He was some guy that no one would pick out in a crowd. Thirty-ish, white, brown hair, brown eyes, not quite six feet, not pudgy but not super skinny, not really muscular-I mean, he got the hang on me from some drug on a rag…"

"Okay, Dean, calm down," Lewis said, looking at John, who stood in the corner of the room, keeping a careful eye on his son. "Can we get a sketch artist?"

Dean shrugged, running his good hand through his newly washed hair. Six weeks and two days, and here he was, being put through the ringer by this cop that just kept pushing when Dean didn't want to be pushed.

"What about the room?"

"It…it was concrete, one door, holes at the top that ran a cable that he kept my hands tied to. There was a mattress, and a sink and a toilet. That's it. That's the only room I saw until I ran, and I don't remember anything but searching for that door," Dean answered, shaking a little.

"Good, Dean, good. What happened yesterday? Did you get your hands untied, or did you-"

"I made him think I conceded in our little game. I let him touch me, and I let him-" Dean's breath quickened, and John stepped forward, halting when his son shook his head. "I let him kiss me." Dean's eyes went wild at the confession, and he looked up at his dad, his tears threatening to spill. "I couldn't think of any other way, Dad. It was the only way he was going to let me use my hands, and I couldn't leave if I wasn't off that stupid cable. I didn't like it and I wanted to throw up, Dad-"

"Ssssh, Dean," John comforted, wrapping his son in a hug, feeling the moisture soak through his shirt. "You did nothing wrong, Ace. You were brave, and you…most people wouldn't have been that smart, wouldn't have-"

"But-"

"No buts, Dean. You did nothing wrong," Detective Lewis added. "Why don't we take a break?"

John nodded, and the detective took his leave, going to find a nurse and the doctor. He felt sick to his stomach, his mind on what Dean had said. _I let him kiss me. It was the only way he was going to let me use my hands, and I couldn't leave if I wasn't off that stupid cable. I didn't like it and I wanted to throw up, Dad. _He shuddered to think what it had been like for the boy, trapped in that room, wondering when he would give in just for some food, for some privilege, for a chance of escape.

Inside the hospital room, John kept a tight hold on his son, rubbing his back softly, hoping his oldest would cry himself to sleep. Inside, anger warred with sympathy; anger at the man who made his son like this, and sympathy for the boy who had no warning to deal with something so severe. "You have nothing to be ashamed of, Dean. You've made me so proud. You fought that son of a bitch as long as you could, and then you adapted to escape. You were smart and cunning, and everything that deserves praise and nothing that deserves shame, you hear me?" John's fingers gently raised his sons head, his thumb wiping away the stray tears. "I don't want you to be disgusted with yourself, or ashamed. You were a damned brave man, okay? Brave, smart…sly….not anything to be ashamed of."

"You think so, Dad?"

"I know so, son."

Dean's face fell as soon as Dean let go. "I gave up on you guys. That's shameful."

"You escaped by yourself. That's not."

"He touched me-not like that, but…he was some weird creepy guy that like to touch my face and…and call me _kitten_-" The word was spat out with disgust and pain, and John smirked; there was his boy. "I tried to tell him that I like girls, and he just-"

"Some people are sick in the head, son," Doctor Harrison said as he came in the room with a syringe. "I think maybe it's time for you to get some rest."

"I think that's a good idea," John replied, squeezing his son's good shoulder, whispering in his ear "as soon as Sam gets here, he'll be here, probably reading you some weird science-y schoolbook. You need to sleep." He kissed the boy's forehead, right above a laceration, and pulled away far enough for the doctor to get in to insert the syringe into the IV port, moving back when the doctor tossed the syringe in the medical waste can. A few minutes later, John was shifting Dean into a comfortable position, pulling the blanket up before standing, eyes glancing at the doctor. "He's going to get better, right? I can't imagine-"

"He'll get better, John. It's just going to take some time. We'll get him out of here, and then he's just going to need to heal on his own. He's got fight, he just needs to be around the people that matter so that he can rebuild it. His life was thrown a curveball, and he just needs to right it."

"We're getting out of town once Dean gets better. I've got a friend in South Dakota; we're going to go there. It's a safe place for him," John confided in the doctor, glancing back at his son. "When do you think you'll be releasing him?"

"Four or five days, no more than a week. We want to make sure he can move around stably and he's eating well and there are no general complications-" Doctor Harrison stopped talking when the door opened and Sam entered the room, dropping his book bag near the set of drawers and glancing from his brother to his father and the doctor.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We had a meeting with the detectives; they wore him out," John answered, deciding in that money that his youngest son needn't know the whole truth until Dean was ready to tell it. "Why don't you go get something from the cafeteria?"

Sam looked up darkly, glancing to his brother again, but he nodded slowly. "Sure. Do you want anything?"

"More coffee." John smiled, handing him some cash, knowing he would stay gone until he saw the doctor leave and then come back mysteriously empty-handed.

And so he did not five minutes after Doctor Harrison took his leave, carting around an extra large black coffee for his father and a Sprite for himself, surprising John. "Thanks, kid," he whispered, patting Sam's shoulder. "I know you're not going to want to, but when Dean gets out of the hospital, where going to go stay with Bobby for awhile. I know you don't want to change schools and everything-"

"I think a change of pace would be good for Dean," Sam said. "Good for all of us."

"I'm glad you aren't fighting this. I know you have school-"

"Dean means more than school, Dad. If he gets better, then…that's all I care about."

John smiled, patting his son's shoulder. "I need to go out for a little while; he's expecting you to read to him. Something light, okay? The day hasn't been good."

"Yeah, I've got the Lord of the Rings today, and, uh, we're at the action part," Sam confided with a small smile, pulling out the huge tome and climbing into the chair beside the bed, getting comfortable as he opened it to the middle and began to read. John watched them for a few seconds before taking his leave, letting the doctor know where he was going before leaving the hospital.

From afar, the Man grinned as he saw the father leave. Finally, finally he could have his kitten back.

---

"It's pouring," Dean commented to the physical therapist as he slowly made his way down the hospital hall, his good arm pressed against the wall, his bad one stabilized in the sling. "I haven't seen it rain this much in years."

"Yeah, it is," the man answered, keeping an eye on Dean's shaky legs. "You still okay?"

"I'm still okay."

Another step forward.

Another clap of thunder, a burst of lightning.

Dean flinched and stumbled.

"Concentrate, Dean," the therapist chided gently, stopping to right his patient. "One fall could seriously hinder _your_ plans of going home soon."

"Sorry; the sound-"

"I know you aren't particularly fine with the loud noises and everything-"

"I should be," Dean murmured. "I shouldn't be like this. I'm not some scared little…I'm not some victim. I shouldn't be."

"Dean, you _are_ a victim, though. I know you don't want to think of it that way, but you _are_," Eric said, knowing his patient would tense up, try to deny it, but there was no way he wouldn't get Dean to see the reality of the situation. The kid was smart.

"I'm-"

"It's okay if you're a victim; you're not dwelling in it. You're getting better, and you aren't going to fail," he whispered, patting the boy's shoulder. "You're doing a good job."

Dean smiled—a real, live smile--not a smirk, or a cocky grin, but a _smile_.

And took a step.

John was waiting in his room when he came back in, sifting through some of the forms the hospital had given him, mostly on the aftercare for when Dean was discharged. Everyone knew of the plans to relocate after the discharge, and John had had to leave contact numbers for the cops, had to find a doctor for Dean near Bobby's, and though it was a lot of work, it was for _Dean_, and that was all that mattered to him right now.

He watched his son falter as he reached for the bed, and the forms were forgotten as he steadied Dean, grinning at him. Dean had jumped, but hadn't pulled away, and John counted that as a win in his mind. Unless he had initiated the contact, Dean was still aloof about anybody except Sam touching him.

Eric watched them for a minute before departing, leaving his patient in his father's capable hands. "How'd it go today, Ace?" John asked softly, taking his seat again, looking over the forms.

"I walked. It hurt, but I walked," Dean remarked, looking out the window.

"I'm proud," John replied.

Dean graced him with a rare smile.

Outside the room, a man in the white uniform of an orderly smiled as well. His boy was getting better again. Soon, very soon, Dean would be ready to come back to him, and soon, very soon, their game could continue.

----

"What happened the first night?"

Dean glanced at the detective, shaking his head. "The first night?"

"When you first woke up?" Detective Lewis prodded, keeping his voice calm, soft, so Dean wouldn't feel so awkward.

"I was in the room, and um, I think it was night, at least the room was dark. I was pretty disoriented, because of whatever was on the cloth, but um, there was a chair in front of me. _He_ was in the chair. Sitting right there-and he touched me. My cheek-like I was a dog or something. And then he, um, then he said _I've been waiting for you_. And I kicked him, and I tried everything to keep him away from me." Dean's voice was barely above a whisper, and he looked at his father, who smiled, squeezing his forearm slightly.

This was one of those wanted touches, John thought, one of the few that Dean actively sought out, that Dean wanted to have. This was an ok touch, one that he wouldn't fight, one that he was grateful for, even. He didn't relate that touch to the bastard that had taken him.

"He hit me, then. Punched me pretty hard, I guess-I blacked out."

"When did he start withholding food from you?"

"The um…second day, I think, is when he started. It was one of the earlier days, though, I know that."

"He started with just one day?"

"Yeah, just one, and then it was every two days, and then every three, and finally it was up to six days. He would put the food down at the other end of the room and stand between me and it and it was like he was taunting me, wanting me to give in. I wouldn't," Dean murmured, looking up. "Is that all? I'm being discharged; I want to get out of here."

Detective Lewis smiled broadly, nodding to the other officer. "For now, this is it. We'll contact you if we have anymore questions."

Dean watched them leave, waiting until they out to turn to his father, his own smile seeking refuge on his face. "I'm ready to go now, Dad."

"Me too, Dean, me too."

---

"He's looking good," Bobby whispered to John as they took duffle bags inside, the boys having gone ahead so that Dean could lie down to rest and Sam could play with Rumsfeld. "Looks like he's putting on weight."

"Five pounds, which the doctor said is good. I've got a paper with the food that he can have, somewhere…" John replied. "He's doing a lot better. He's eating all his food, he's been walking pretty well. If only I could get him to break out of his shell. He's-God, he's nothing like he used to be. He's docile, and soft-spoken and everything Dean wasn't."

"John, he was gone for six weeks, at the mercy of some pervert for _six weeks_. It's going to take a lot more than a couple days in the hospital for him to get back to normal. I thought you said he still has his bite-" John smiled, a small smile that could have been classified as a grin.

"You know he does. It's hidden, it's buried deep, but it's there. He's in there, somewhere. Hopefully here, he'll get back to the hot-shot Ace that I know and love. Hopefully, he'll find his refuge here."

In the downstairs room, Dean heard the soft strains of his father's voice as _he'll find his refuge here_ floated in. _Dad thinks I'm broken_ was his only thought, and a tiny tear trickled down his cheek. "You are," he whispered to the dark, empty room, and alone, there was no one there to argue the truth.

_---_End Two---


	3. Chapter Three: Nightmares

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** I am so sorry this has taken so long. My rule is that I'm not posting a new chapter until I have the next one written, and I didn't get to write at all this week because I had finals all week. That being said, here is the next chapter (for all those 2 people who reviewed ;-) )

**Three: Nightmares**

_ "Now, now, kitten, why are you hiding that pretty face from me?" Cold fingers touched his cheek, and Dean cringed as his face was forced up, his eyes never leaving the grimy floor. "Look at me."_

Dean gasped, eyes opening to the dark room. He sat up, glancing over at Sam's bed to make sure he hadn't woken his little brother. When he heard the soft snores, he sighed, reaching for his shirt. He struggled--but managed--to get it on, but didn't button it, grabbing his shoes as he glanced back to his brother's bed a final time before slipping out of the room.

He made his way through the house, grimacing when he bumped into the table, his hip protesting in pain as he continued moving. He heard a sudden movement and jerked around, regretting it dearly when the pain rushed up his thigh and moved into his chest. "Dammit," he muttered, looking at the doorway that was swinging, feeling a nudge by his leg.

He let out the breathe that he didn't know he had been holding. "Rumsfeld."

The dog looked up at him, and Dean gave him a smile. "C'mon, boy, let's go outside."

The Rottweiler followed Dean faithfully through the salvage yard. He ahd walked too much, he realized, as his leg twitched and suddenly gave out. He collapsed in the middle of the yard, breath quivering. Muscles in his good arm quaked as he pulled himself into a sitting position, Rumsfeld taking his place beside the teenager.

His thoughts were clouded with nightmares of six hellish weeks spent in that small concrete room, and he could feel the claustrophobia even as the cool South Dakota breeze chill him to the bone. "Rumsfeld, I hate this. I'm not a scared person; I'm not supposed to be this way." The dog cocked his head, licking Dean's fingers. "I'm supposed to be strong."

_But you aren't _his mind whispered, and he felt his stomach clenching.

"I tried. Everyday that I could, I fought. I just-I was getting weaker and more tired and-I was close to saying yes. Even though…even though yes meant horrible things, I was weak and I was tired and I just wanted…"

A tear slid down his face. He wiped it away with his good hand, glancing at the dog. Another tear fell, and then another, and a whole storm of them came upon him before he knew what was going on. He gripped the dog's fur tightly as he cried, his sobs overcoming his body.

"Dean?"

He looked up, scared, eyes widening when Bobby stepped forward. "Bobby, I'm-" he wiped his nose and his face on his sleeve.

"Kid, what are you doing down there?" Bobby asked softly, smiling at him as he squatted down. "Sam woke up and got worried when you weren't there. Was gonna wake your Dad, but John's tired."

"I didn't mean to worry him." He let go of the dog, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

"He just thought that maybe someone had come and taken you. He-" Bobby stopped talking, sitting beside Dean. "It scares him. Nothing like this has ever happened, and then it did and he's just trying to adjust again-just like you."

"I'll leave a note next time," Dean amended, smiling.

Bobby gave him a smile back. "Are you okay, kid? Really okay? I didn't get to ask you yesterday, but-when I came, God, I've never been so worried about someone."

"I'm fine, Bobby. Well, not fine, but getting better. He didn't do anything permanent."

"That's not what I was asking and you know it."

"I'm fine."

"And that's why you were out here sobbin' to a dog?" Bobby asked, Dean's eyes on the ground in front of his worn boots instead of on Bobby's. "You're having nightmares?"

"Yeah," Dean admitted in the smallest voice possible, a tear falling onto the dirt.

"About-"

"Yeah. About."

"You know that man's dead if he sets foot on my property, don't you? I won't let him get one God-damned hand on you before I put a bullet in his brain or a knife through his heart. And if your father or your brother are around, God help him. You understand that, don't you? I know it doesn't quite feel all right now, but it is. You _are_ safe."

"Bobby-"

"I just wanted you to know, kid; no tellin' what goes through that head some days. C'mon; let's get you up and I'll make breakfast."

"I fell. Can you help me up?" Bobby felt a surge of pride, and nodded. "Just…don't the ribs, okay? They still hurt. And my shoulder. And my arms. And really…everything pretty much hurts."

"I'll be gentle-like," Bobby half-promised, before hauling Dean to his feet, staying near as he stumbled a few lackluster steps before steadying. "I'm going to be right by your side the whole way. If you stumble, grab me, okay? I'm not going to let you fall."

"I know." There was a quiet determination in Dean's voice, and he set his eyes on the house, willing himself just to make it there, that everything would be okay when he got there. It was a time consuming process, getting to the house, and sweat dripped down Dean's face as he concentrated on getting into the house, to the table in the kitchen where he could rest.

Bobby opened the door, letting Rumsfeld past before following Dean in, making sure the boy sat at the table as Sam came rushing out. "I was-"

"I'm fine, Sam. I took Rumsfeld with me and everything," Dean cut his brother off, smiling. "I promised Bobby next time I'd leave a note."

"Leave a note for what, son?" John asked gruffly as he came into the kitchen, rubbing his face as he tried to wake up. His voice had made Dean flinch, and he paused, taking in his son's frazzled appearance, his normally subdued hair flying every which-way, the dark circles under his eyes. "Dean-" He was stern, a don't-you-lie-to-me stern, but not harsh; his child was frightened; he didn't want to make it worse.

"I had a nightmare. I went for a walk. Sam got worried. Bobby came. I'm back." It was a quick succession of words, no pauses in between the sentences, and John wondered if he took a breath when he said them.

"You had a nightmare?"

Dean was amazed that John had fixated on that. If this had been any normal Winchester situation, John would have focused on the fact that Dean had left without watching Sammy and would have gone beserk on him.

But this wasn't a normal situation for obvious reasons.

"Ace?"

Dean's thoughts faded as he looked at his father, nodding once. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." The words felt wooden in his mouth, and he averted his eyes so he couldn't see Bobby's glare.

John sat down across from Dean, and he was forced to look the man in the eye. "Are you positive?"

Dean smiled, hoping it at least _looked_ like a good attempt, and nodded. "I figured I'd help Bobby with his library stuff today."

"And I figured you're going to rest like the doctor told you too," John responded, grinning. "Take copious amounts of pain medication, do a little walkin' around, nothing too strenuous, and then nap. I figured that's what you're gonna do."

"Dad-"

"There's no arguing, Dean. There is taking the pills, doin' your exercise, and resting. That's your only option," John cut his son off. "That's it."

"Okay. But can I at least help Bobby? I'm gonna go mad doing nothing all day," Dean murmured, glancing up at his father. "Please? I won't-I'll take it easy and everything."

He never thought he'd ever have to _beg_ to help clean Bobby's musty, well-worn library. Of course, he also never thought his father would ever have a problem with him offering to help clean said library.

John was straying from the plan, the plan of Dean staying on track, of taking his pills and resting and walking _only_, but the look on his son's face at the thought of being stuck in his room all day was only slightly less heartbreaking as his son's face at the thought of staying in the hospital one minute longer than absolutely necessary.

"Fine, but when Bobby tells you to quit-"

"I'll stop, Dad," Dean promised, a smile lighting his entire face. "Thank you."

John only grunted as Bobby set a plate of food in front of his son, Sam setting down four pills. With the three looking at him, Dean swallowed the pills before starting in on his eggs.

Four pills and two hours later, John was helping his son to the bedroom to rest, Dean's attention quickly being reduced to nothingness as the pills lulled him to sleep. "Dean, stay awake for me," John murmured, patting his son's cheek, keeping him as still as possible as to not reinjure his already hurt hips. "Dean, c'mon; we've got a little ways longer to go."

"Dad, I wanna…wanna puppy."

John smiled, opening the door to the bedroom, flipping on the light. "You have Rumsfeld."

"Ne…ne'er wanted a cat. 'Spelly a…a kitten."

John turned somber, sitting Dean on the bed, working to get his boots off. "I know, buddy. No cats."

"Not a…not a kitten, Daddy."

"I know, son. C'mon, let me have your shirt-" he struggle to get the flannel overshirt off, thankful Dean had dressed in sweatpants. Once he got the long-sleeved shirt off, he help Dean settle back, covering him with the quilt. "Good night, Ace."

"Not a…not helpless," Dean said, eyes fluttering, and John nodded, leaning in to kiss his forehead.

"I know, son. Get some rest."

"Not gonna…not broken, either."

John glanced at his son, eyes narrowed, but the boy had already fallen asleep, so John let the words go, figuring he was in some memory of when he was with the man. He watched his son for a few moments more, and then stood, laying Dean's shirt on the back of the chair in the room, turning off the lights as he paused at the doorway. "Good dreams today, Dean," he whispered, closing the door until there was only a crack of light left, not enough to disturb his son, but enough to reassure John that should anything happen, he could get into the room quickly.

"Dad, he's not okay," Sam said as soon as John returned to the library where they were researching. "He's acting like nothing happened. Something did happen though, Dad. He can't keep-"

"Sam, let up on him for awhile. He's had it tough, and he needs some time to get back to normal. So just give him a break. He'll break down eventually, and he'll let us build him back up, but you need to wait for that time, and be patient about it."

That shut Sam up, and he retreated to the bedroom on the pretense of getting some reading done.

His book stayed on page 25, and his eyes never left his brother.

_His stomach growled, and Dean grimaced, seeing The Man smile brightly, as if he had won. "This means nothing," he snapped, pressing back into the wall. He could feel the scratchy material leave red marks down his shoulders, across his back, but he kept pushing, kept hoping that maybe, eventually, a miracle would happen and he would be able to get away._

_ Apparently, he ignored The Man for too long, because he felt himself being jerked up, body flush with the wall._

_ "Oh, kitten, you don't know how long I'm willing to wait," The Man whispered into his ear, and the tip of his tongue trailed down Dean's face, even as the boy jerked away and his head cracked against the concrete wall. "I don't know why you are fighting. We are inevitable."_

_ And then he pressed against Dean, and Dean felt his stomach turn at the feeling of what he could…feel. His whole body tensed, and he felt the bile rising. "Get off me," he whispered, voice full of venom and hate. "I'm going to kill you."_

_ "Oh, baby, you know you like this," The Man had replied, pushing forward, and Dean felt his hands on the buckle of his belt._

_ "You touch anything down there and I will shove my foot so far up you," Dean warned, even as the man slipped the belt loose. _

_ Dean felt helpless, felt like he was slowly sinking, drowning, dying, with no one there to pick him up. He could feel his body start to tremble, and wondered if he could hold back thte tears. He could imagine what his father would say if he could see his son now, wondered how disappointed he would be. _Man up_ he could imagine John Winchester telling him._

_ The man's hand reached for the button of his jeans._

His breath came in staggering gasps as he shot up from the bed, scrambling forward, pain taking over and making him panic. He fell off the bed, moving forward, looking around wildly for _anywhere_ to hide, anywhere to…throw up. The overwhelming urge to puke coursed through his body, and he flung his arms out in a search for anything to-

And then it all came out. All over the floor of Bobby's guest bedroom, staining the carpet and his clothes and shoes and-

Cautiously, something touched him, and he flinched, shaking. "C'mon, Ace, calm down," he heard a voice coax, and he felt himself relaxing into the touch. "It's okay, buddy." The hand was between his shoulders, rubbing soothing circles into the skin there. "It was just a dream, sweetheart. Just calm down."

"Dad-" he cried out over the sobs and gulps for air. "I didn't mean to-"

"I know, honey," John interrupted him, keeping the circles as soothing as possible, eyes meeting Bobby's. "Can you walk?"

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dean murmured, looking around, as if finally seeing what he had done. "I'll clean it up. I'll-"

"You're going to get into the shower and get yourself cleaned up," John replied, his voice still soft and gentle. "Were you having a nightmare?"

Dean nodded, only once, before his face screwed up in pain again and John hauled him to his feet, hustling him to the bathroom. He threw up again, nearly missing the toilet, and John stayed with him, whispered encouraging words.

"What happened?" John asked as he helped get the soaked t-shirt off, starting the water in the tub. "Dean? Your nightmare-"

"It was from an early day, probably when it was three days between food, I think. He-my stomach growled and he said something, and I snapped back. And then he-pressed against me, and his hand went for my belt and….I woke up then," Dean whispered, glancing at his father.

"What happened in real life?" John could barely get out the words, but he had to know, just in case Dean had been lying about things…not happening.

"I kicked him in the balls. As hard as I could. That's when we started on four days," Dean replied, a small smile on his face. "I told him I would; he didn't believe me."

"I'm proud of you," John said. "I'm proud you fought back. I'm going to get you some clothes; can you get out fo the rest of yours'?" Dean nodded. "Keep your arm out of the water, okay? Just relax."

"I really am sorry."

"It's not your fault. Get cleaned up."

John left Dean then, keeping the door cracked-_just in case_, he whispered in his mind. Bobby and Sam were working on the mess in the bedroom, and John just shrugged apologetically at his friend. "He's all right?" Bobby asked as he stood.

"He's all right. I'm sorry about this, Bobby-"

Bobby shook his head, tossing the soiled paper towels into the trash bag. "It was an accident. What happened?"

John glanced at Sam, who dutifully grabbed clothes from his brother's duffle and left the room. "He had a nightmare-a memory, and he, uh, it was a bad one. A very, very bad one. One that made me question if he had been telling the truth about, about-"

Bobby tensed. "He was, right?"

John gave a bare smile, nodding. "I'm damn proud of my son, Bobby. But this-all of this-it's going to break him. Now I have to worry about these nightmares-"

"Some things he has to work out by himself, John. He's got to realize that he prevented anything from happening to him. He has to realize that he ultimately won the game. He's got to realize that he's stronger than this. It's all stuff he has to do on his own. We can give him the tools, nudge him along, but he has to take the steps and walk himself. And that might mean dealing with this-with the puke and the nightmares, and everything else-for a while."

"I can't keep stuffing him full of pills. It's not safe-"

"I'm not saying you should, John. But let him have a little freedom, let him help me, slowly get him started back training…get him into a normal routine. Then he is going to start healing himself," Bobby answered.

In the bathroom, Dean leaned his head against the cool tiles of the tub, letting out a breath as the hot spray tumbled down the back of his neck, his back, loosening tense muscles. His cast was wrapped in plastic-Sam had remembered-and he rested it against the front wall, out of the way of the spray.

He couldn't keep doing this. He couldn't keep freaking out over every little thing. That was letting The Man win, and he wouldn't allow that.

He had to get it together.

He washed himself quickly, and was getting dressed when there was a knock on the door. "Dean?"

He sighed, gripping the counter of the sink as he told his dad to come in. "What's wrong?" he asked, glancing at the man.

"I wanted to make sure you're okay, Dean. That nightmare was pretty-it seemed insane," John answered, leaning against the wall opposite Dean. "I just wanted to make sure you aren't-"

"I'm shaky, Dad," Dean admitted, turning to face his father. "I'm shaky. I'm not fine; I haven't been fine in…what seems like forever. I'm…I'm weak, and I'm broken and I'm-I'm not the son you know anymore. And I'm sorry about that, and I'm sorry that you have to stop being a hunter for me-"

John wrapped Dean in a hug, pressing the boy's head down so that it rested against his father's shoulder. "I'm going to tell you this once more," he whispered in his son's ear, his voice tight and stern. "And I want you to believe me. Ace, you are strong. You fought. You fought tooth and nail time and time again. And yeah, you're a little torn up, a little rough around the edges, but who isn't? And we-me and Bobby and your brother and all those doctors and even the cops-we're going to help you. So I don't want to hear talk about you thinking that you aren't important to me, or that you're not worth my attention. You are worth everything to me. You and Sam-you are everything."

The junkyard was disgusting, and not the place to keep his kitten.

His boy-though he didn't realize it yet-deserved so many fine things, things only he could provide. He just needed Dean to see how much he loved him, how much he cared, how much more he could give the boy if only Dean would _love him_.

He had never felt like this before. The boys before Dean-they were nothing compared to his kitten. The fifteen year old before-he hadn't been as much as a fighter as Dean. The one before that, not as beautiful. The one before that-none of them had compared to the boy that was hidden somewhere in that stupid, disgusting junkyard.

_No, no, not to think like that_, he said, pushing his binoculars to his eyes. He was on a mission; he needed to find his kitten. Now.

---End Three---

PLEASE REVIEW!


	4. Chapter Four: Fight

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** Yay for chapter four! It's not nearly as long as my others, but it's leading to major drama (which happens in chapter five!). I want to thank everyone who is reviewing/reading this story, and I want you all to know how much I appreciate the reviews, even though I don't respond. I was crazy busy with school stuff last week (and want you all to know that I managed to keep HOPE-you in GA will know what I'm talking about), but I've also been delayed because I had to move back home for the summer, watch my brother graduate from college, take care of my cat (her foot recently got infected and at 18, there's only so much you can do for the poor baby) and I've been helping my mother in her classroom all week (dealing with 4-5-year-olds all day is _exhausting_, let me tell you). Hopefully, the next chapter will be up by Sunday/Monday, though, starting Saturday, I start my summer job, so no guarantees or promises.

**Please review; they make my day, and I'm thinking that this time, I'm going to provide a 100-ish word preview for chapter five** so there. If you review without signing in, make sure you leave an email address to which I can send the preview, but make sure it's in **email(dot)yahoo(dot)com**, or else the review will delete it and I will have no way to get the preview to you.

Sorry for all this rambling on, but here you go…

**Second A/N**: Almost done, I promise. Can I just tell you writing from the perspective of--and details about Dean's relationship with--_The Man_ is pretty…ugh. I do not condone such behavior, and believe people who do stuff like that belong in the ground, preferably in some sort of hellish encounter with the guy down below after being blasted from the guy upstairs. Just so you know.

**Four: Fight**

_"You think you are actually going to be able to do this?" The Man was in a questioning mood that morning (or night, Dean didn't really know nor care). It had been question after question after question with no answer from Dean (he wouldn't give in, he wouldn't). _

_ This one he was willing to answer. "I know I'm going to win. I'm going to kill you, like you're some monster. It's going to be so. fun."_

_ The Man laughed, reaching out his hand to trail it down Dean's cheek-God, his weird habit._

_ "You keep doing that, I'm going to bite your finger off one day," Dean threatened, jerking his head away. _

_ "One day, you'll be kissing and sucking it." The Man smirked, and trailed his fingertips down Dean's face again. "Among other things."_

_He could feel vomit piling in his throat, but he swallowed, glaring. "I'm sure."_

_The man only smiled, pulling his hand away. "I love your fight, Dean. It's what made you so appealing-how you thought you were strong, how you thought that you were able, and how you are going to realize that you need someone like me there to-"_

_ Dean kicked him, as hard as he could, feeling the skin around the man's chest give into the force. It was so satisfying, even as the man retaliated, wrapping his hand around Dean's neck and _pressing_. The euphoria of his moment of glory quickly seeped from his body as the man's breath warmed Dean's neck, teeth biting down just hard enough to make him shiver in fear. "One day, kitten, one day, you won't shy away from my touch."_

It was still dark outside.

He inhaled a deep breath, hand coming up to touch his neck as if the memory of the strangulation was burned into his throat.

"You okay?"

He jumped, breath coming in quick gasps as his hand reached for the knife underneath his pillow, stopping when Sam's floppy hair came into view. "Sammy?" he whispered, hands tightening into fists as he tried to calm down.

"It's me," Sam's soft voice answered, cautious, small hands finding their place on Dean's wrist. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"That would be what you're thinking about, wouldn't it?" Sam said, shaking his head. "Are you okay?" Dean was still breathing harshly, and Sam couldn't forget the image of him jumping up with his hand to his neck. Sam wanted to know what had happened, what he had been dreaming about, but he wasn't so sure he wanted to hear of the pain and torture his brother had to endure.

Dean gave off his trademark smirk, pulling away from Sam. "I'm fine, baby bro. Go back to bed."

"Uhn-uh, Dean; that's not gonna work for me. You aren't okay; you've had nightmares the last week-you don't sleep."

"Do I keep you awake?"

_Of course that's what he wants to get hung up on_, Sam thought as he sat back on his heels, watching his brother rub his temples. "No, but I stay awake because you won't sleep, and I wait to make sure you will," he admitted. "I'll go back to sleep if you do."

"I'm…I'm going to go take a walk with Rumsfeld," Dean stumbled over the words, jerking his feet into his boots. "Stay here, Sammy, you hear me? I don't need you following me around."

Sam sat in stunned silence as his brother left the room, wincing slightly when he heard the back door slam.

Dean kept a tight grip on Rumsfeld as they headed deeper into the junkyard, wondering if Sam would try to follow. He loved his brother, but Sam could only make this situation worse. Right now, as much as he needed his little brother around, he need to work through the nightmares alone.

He needed to get stronger so that he could train again. Training would take his mind off the horridness of the situation, and would allow him to figure out what went wrong and how to prevent it from happening again.

But he couldn't, not yet. According to his doctor, he still needed to heal for a couple more weeks before his pelvis would be healed enough to put all his weight on one side or another. And his arm was healing way more slowly than the woman liked. She was pretty sure Dean would have to stay in the cast for an extra two weeks.

"This sucks," he said to the dog.

"This does suck."

Dean jumped, trying to shift to his feet as his father came into view. "Dad, I-"

"I heard you and Sam." He stopped talking as he watched Dean struggle to find his balance. "Sit down, Dean."

His son obeyed instantly, sinking back down to the dusty dirt, even as embarrassment marred his face. "It's still a little weak," he mumbled, looking anywhere but his father, even as John sat across from him.

"You had a nightmare?"

"It was nothing, Dad. It was-I'm handling it. I'll be back to normal, soon, I promise, and we can leave and hunt and-"

He jerked back as he felt his father's hand on his face, glancing up at the man. "Ace, don't worry about that. When your better, we'll start again. But only when you're better. And these nightmares? They're not nothing, son."

"They are-" Dean murmured, trying to pull away from his father, shaking his head. "I can get through them. I just need to…get my head straight. That's all."

"Or you could tell me."

"Dad-"

"Dean, whatever you're doing-whatever you think is a good way to handle this-it isn't. Why don't you just talk to me? Please. I won't judge."

"He strangled me one night. He said something about licking and sucking his…and I kicked him and all he did was press his arm against my throat, so hard that I was seeing black spots and I just wanted…I passed out."

"Okay." John kept his mind calm, kept his voice gentle.

"He tried to…to hurt me one time. I don't know….days had started running together, so I'm not sure when it was. He had been drinking, I think, and he came storming into the room, muttering something about his 'kitten' and how he'd make me _purr_." Dean could barely get over the word, and he was looking at the dog, his fingers running through Rumsfeld's fur. "I had been asleep, or I guess as close as I could get to asleep, and he touched me. He…he was pretty close to getting my jeans off when I stopped him. But he had been muttering things-things that I won't…I won't repeat. I managed to elbow him in the face and that pulled him out of his stupor. I'm afraid he might have done something-"

"Oh, honey-"

"But I'm fine."

"He scared you," John whispered, and Dean nodded. "He did it a lot."

"All the time. Every time he came in that damn room, he scared me. I wasn't sure when my luck was going to run out."

"And you're still scared?"

Dean looked around, tears welling in his eyes, before nodding. "You see me. I can barely move-I couldn't get away. I can't protect Sam-I can't even protect myself. I'm scared that he's going to come here and I'm not going to be able to stop him from taking me again. And if he does that, I'm scared I will never see the light of day again. I'm scared I will never be able to fight back against the bastard."

John didn't say anything, and Dean wiped the tears from his eyes. "You will," he whispered, and Dean looked up, surprised. "You have to heal first, Ace, your mind and your body. You can't expect everything to be fixed automatically. But you give it time, we'll get you back on track. We'll get you back to training and if that sonuvabitch should ever find his way to you again, you'll be ready."

"You think?"

"I know so. You about ready to go in? It's only five; you haven't been sleeping well, and I want you to try and get some more."

"Yeah." It was barely muttered, but John smiled, offering a hand to his son. When Dean took it cautiously, John pulled him up, helping to steady the teen as they started the winding path back to the house. "Thank you, Dad."

"Anytime, Dean, anytime."

"Do you need some help?"

Sam didn't say anything as his brother entered the library, going back to his book and the notes he had beside it. "Do you want to snap my head off again?"

"I'm….I didn't mean to, Sam. I was having a bad morning."

"That's an excuse, not what I'm looking for," Sam snapped, hand pausing over the notepad, wondering where his rage had come from. His brother didn't deserve it. His brother had been through hell, his brother was trying to adjust…but that still didn't give Dean the right to make Sam feel like the dirt below his feet.

"I was…I panicked. I was-"

"All I want is an 'I'm sorry, Sam.' Not really looking for some long winded explanation," Sam answered. "I know you need to have your secrets. I accept that. I just don't need you snapping my head off every time I try to be nice to you."

"I didn't mean to, Sam," Dean said with a sigh. "I had a nightmare, and I-I didn't want to deal with it with you there. I'm sorry I was acting bitchy towards you…"

"It's okay," Sam interrupted, closing the book. "Just…get over it soon, okay? I can handle quiet, frightened, scared you, but I can't handle snot-nosed brat you."

Dean smirked, sitting beside his brother. Several moments of silence lapsed, and Sam tensed as Dean let out a breath. "What do you want to know?"

The pen dropped from his hand, and he turned to look at his brother. "What?"

"What do you want to know? You're my brother, Sam; I should be able to talk to you."

"You don't have to-"

"But I want to," Dean murmured softly, eyes focusing on the floor. "So what do you want to know?"

"Where were you?"

"A cabin, in the woods, somewhere. I ran through a field and forest before I hit the highway, so…I'm not sure where it was."

"Did he do anything-"

Dean's smirk returned, but this was a wry smirk. "He did a lot of things, Sammy, but none are what you are thinking, I promise. He never got that far." Dean opened the book Sam had in his lap, choosing to focus on that instead of the pain of the memories that threatened to roll in. "I did everything I could to stop him. I wasn't letting him have that."

"Did he try anything that I'm not thinking about?"

Dean shrugged, biting his bottom lip as he flipped through the pages, occasionally glancing at his brother's notes. "You got the Latin wrong there," he commented.

"And that's not a good segue. Answer the question."

"He tried," he said simply, watching Sam correct the notes absentmindedly. "He succeeded."

"Dean-"

"That's what I have nightmares about, Sam. He tried to strangle me once. Tried to kiss me, touch me, feel me up-he tried a lot. But I stopped a lot of it. I fought a lot of it."

Sam didn't say anything, hand clenching into a fist as tightly as possible. "But something happened."

"Stuff happened, yeah. Nothing as bad as what could have been," Dean admitted, glancing to his brother. "Does that change anything?"

"Anything about what? Us? Why should that change anything, Dean? You're still my brother, still my best friend. You're still everything that matters, even if there's a little bit of dirt and stuff on the exterior," Sam said. "And the rest is just…baggage that, one day, hopefully you'll drop. It's not your fault stuff happened, and what kind of jackass would I be?"

"You know, you're a cool kid." Sam smiled, flinching when his brother ruffled his hair. "Most of the time." Dean stood, finally feeling something than utter pain and misery, feel nervousness and tension and everything that had been building since he had been kidnapped.

He felt relief again, felt it pouring through his body.

He smiled.

"Sometimes, you're pretty cool, too," he heard Sam murmur as he left the room, and his smile grew.

The phone rang sometime mid-day, and Bobby picked it up after glaring at it for a moment. "Bobby Singer," he said, voice gruff and rough.

"Um…this is Detective Lewis. I need to talk to John Winchester."

Bobby bit his lip, looking to the living room couch, where John was sitting, his hand running through Dean's hair as his oldest son slept soundly for the first time in what seemed like forever. John felt someone staring, and looked up to meet Bobby's eyes. He carefully maneuvered Dean so that he could get up, piling pillows so he didn't disturb the teen too much.

He grabbed the phone from Bobby, pressing it against his ear. "Detective Lewis?"

"We've got a photo for Dean to look at; we think our perp tried to kidnap another boy yesterday. He got caught on camera. Is there any way you can bring Dean in tomorrow to confirm it's-"

"He has a doctor's appointment at ten; it won't be until one or two before we can get there."

"That's fine, sir. How is he doing?"

John glance back to his son, a smile warming his face. "It's been a long couple of weeks, but he's getting better. Still jumpy, but not quite as bad. It's just an everyday process. Should I tell him why we are coming?"

"Just tell him I have a few more questions. I'm sure he'll grumble."

"Alright then, sir. We'll see you tomorrow." He hung up the phone, ignoring Bobby as he made his way to the kitchen, hearing the old man follow. "They have a suspect. Want Dean to come in and ID him."

"That's going to be hard for him."

"And maybe putting a name to the face will help his nightmares."

"Maybe, John but this-" Bobby's eyes went back to Dean, watching as he turned and grimaced in pain. "I'm not going to overstep my bounds, but that boy-he's been through a lot. I would just hope you don't put him through more doing this."

"Shouldn't I be able to decide?"

The men both jumped, Dean's eyes fluttering open. "Shouldn't I get a say on this?"

"Dean-"

"Bobby, I want to do this. I want that man to have a name. A name makes him human. A name makes him something I can fight."

----End Four----


	5. Chapter Five: Again

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** Chapter five is here! Even though the response to the last chapter wasn't what I wanted it to be, I thank everyone for reading and I hoped everyone who didn't review enjoyed the chapter at least.

**Please review; they make my day, and I'm thinking that this time, I'm going to provide a 100-ish word preview for chapter six**. If you review without signing in, make sure you leave an email address to which I can send the preview, but make sure it's in **email(dot)yahoo(dot)com**, or else the review will delete it and I will have no way to get the preview to you.

Sorry for all this rambling on, but here you go…

**Second A/N**: Almost done, I promise. Can I just tell you writing from the perspective of--and details about Dean's relationship with--_The Man_ is pretty… revolting. I do not condone such behavior, and believe people who do stuff like that belong in the ground, preferably in some sort of hellish encounter with the guy down below after being blasted from the guy upstairs. Just so you know.

**Five: Again**

"Well, that was a failure," Dean muttered as he opened the door to Bobby's house, not bothering to look at Sam or Bobby as he made his way toward his room, bones creaking and aching as he walked. "Stupid cops can't do anything right."

And then the door slammed.

"I take it that went well?" Bobby said to John, who just glared. "Not the man?"

"Oh, no, it was the man, but they don't know where he is and, though they have a name, they won't tell him. So, it was a total wash, and he had a disappointing visit at the doctor, so, this day has sucked for him," John replied, staring at the closed door. "I need to get his pills."

"We've got another problem."

"And what is that?"

"Got a call from Caleb; he knows you're taking time off, but there is a spirit raisin' hell outside of Murphy, and you might be interested in taking a small, easy case. He said to let him know."

"I-" John knew what he should say; he should say no, that Dean needed him. But that innate since to hunt was pulling at him, telling him that bewing out of the game for even three or four weeks was hard and unacceptable. He let out a small breath, eyes on Bobby. "Why do you say this? You know what I'm going to say, what I want to say."

"You've got a kid in there that doesn't need an absentee father," Bobby whispered. "But he'll understand-in fact, he'll probably urge you to go."

"I need to talk to him before I decide anything. I need to…he needs his pills." He stalked past his old friend to the kitchen, trying to forget the hunting offer Caleb had thrown him. Murphy-it was only two hours away. An angry spirit was an easy salt and burn. With luck, he and Bobby could be back with in two and a half, three hours, tops.

Dean didn't answer the door when John knocked, so he opened it without announcing his presence. "I know you're upset-" he started, but stopped when he saw the tear tracks running down Dean's pale face, which were immediately wrapped away when Dean realized his presence in the room. "Ace-"

"You don't know anything, Dad. You weren't the one pinning all your hopes about fidning this bastard and ripping his arms off on that name. You weren't the one-"

"How do you know I wasn't that person? Do you realize what I was like when you were gone? How hurt I was, how much I wanted and wished that my son would come back to me?" He stopped long enough to sit by his son on the bed. "I missed you?"

"I know, Dad-"

"I don't think you do. You don't realize how much you hold our little family together, and when you were gone-it's like we fell apart. Scratch that-we did fall apart. I was drinking and hunting and there was nothing to stop me from doing that and to look after Sam-so I understand your disappointment, Dean, and I'm right there with you. If I could find that bastard, I would make him suffer a thousand deaths before I actually killed him, and I think I would bring him back just to experience the joys of killing him again." The words were soft, a lot suffer than Dean was used to hearing from his gruff father, but, looking back on the past weeks, there hadn't been a time when John's voice wasn't lace with gentle and soft tones when talking to his oldest.

"I'm just-I see that face in my nightmares, and I don't even have a name to put with it."

"But _they_ do, Dean, and sometimes you have to have a little faith."

Dean grinned, and John knew their heart-to-heart was, thankfully, coming to an end. "I thought you told me never to trust the cops, Dad."

"That's only when they're after you, Ace," he answered, ruffling his son's hair. "Here-take your pills. I need to discuss something with you."

Dean gulped down the round little pills, settling on the bed-no reason not to get comfortable if his dad was going to go into _Serious _mode again. "So, shoot," he started, trying to relieve some of the tension that stood stagnate in the room.

"Caleb has a hunt for us-Bobby and me-in Murphy. It's like two hours from here, and I can be back in three. I know you're here to recover, and I know you're-"

"Go."

"Dean, you have to…think about this-"

"Why? You want to go, and I'm capable of holding down the fort for three hours. I'll take my pills and rest up like a good little boy, and you'll be able to go kill something bad in retaliation for not getting to learn the name of my attacker. It's all good."

Even though Dean said that, John didn't know what to think. Dean rarely said what he meant, rarely showed what he was actually thinking, even though in times such as these, those thoughts would be important. "I don't think I should be leaving you alone so soon-"

"Why, Dad? I'm not an invalid; I down, but not out. So let me prove it. I can take care of Sammy, no worries, and I can take care of myself, and we have Rumsfeld-you're worrying about nothing."

"I'm worrying about you; that's not nothing."

"Dad, I've been independent since I was four; I've been an adult since then, too. I don't need you worrying about me like you are. I'm over my girly, mad-at-the-world moments; from here on out, it's just focusing on getting better, on getting stronger, and not getting caught like I did ever again. To do that, I don't need you coddling me or making me feel like some kid; I need normalcy, which means you need to go on the hunt, and I'll take care of Sam and myself as per usual."

He smiled, and it was like the Old Dean-smart, confident, could-take-over-the-world Dean-was back for a moment. Like the six weeks of being prisoner to some pervert's whims didn't happen, like the whole mess didn't happen.

_If only_.

"Take your pills, get a nap-Bobby and I need to pack."

Dean's smile held.

"This isn't a smart idea," Sam argued with his father as he handed Bobby another book. "Dad, what if something goes wrong-"

"You know where the guns are, son. I know you know how to use them."

"Dad, be serious. What if it's-"

"I expect you to take care of Dean," John interrupted. "He's says he's okay with this, but I'm sure he isn't. I need you to watch over him, make sure he eats _and_ takes his pills-you know how he likes to get out of that little annoying detail. He's watched over you for eleven and a half years-it's time to return the favor, understand?"

"Of course I'll watch over Dean, Dad. What are you hunting?"

"It's just a spirit, Sam. We'll salt and burn it and be done with it. I promise."

"Just be careful. We've run into more than one that isn't cut and dry," Sam whispered, handing his father his gun. "And we don't need anything happening to you now."

"Of course, Sam. I'll come back in one piece, I promise." The conversation was turning awkward for John as he packed, finishing off his weapons and moving on to the rock salt. "Now, I know Dean thinks he can cook for you guys tonight, but you can take care of that, right? I don't really think-"

"Bobby left us leftovers," Sam answered quickly, running a hand through his hair. "And don't worry about Dean. I can take care of him."

"You got all the guns loaded, right? And you know where they are?"

"Yes, sir. And the knives. And the salt. I know, Dad."

"I shouldn't be going."

"No, you shouldn't," Sam agreed, a rare moment of outspokenness in his young life. "But since you are, stop worrying about us and worry about yourself instead. We'll be fine here."

He could see the truck departing, two older men leaving the junkyard. He had been patient, waiting, stalking, for days, the perfect opportunity in his grasp but still far away. But now, now…it was here. The kitten was waiting, probably anxious inside to get back to him, where he could be treated right. Now, now…it was the time to strike.

To take back what was his.

He was stealth as he snuck into the house, stealth as he hummed with all the thoughts of the precious things he and his kitten could do once they were back together-and once kitten had been properly punished for running away.

He didn't understand that-why his kitten would want to run. He was being treated right, was with someone he could trust-why would Dean want to run from all of that?

Why didn't he want to stay?

_No_, he decided, _he didn't want to run. He had to, because these stupid people still had a hold on him_.

That was the real reason, he decided as he made his way ever so closer to the ramshackle house and it's dilapidated outcroppings. _He wouldn't want to run_.

He had planned this thoroughly, his elaborate plan to get Dean back. He had had to wait for the opportune time, like now, when he was nearly all alone and ripe for the taking. He had gathered his supplies with care, making sure to get the medicine that wouldn't leave any ill-effects on his kitten, but that would meld him into a pliable, obedient boy who would go where he was ordered to go with little fuss and fight. He had made sure that the new things he had gotten to bind the boy's hands were lined with softness; he had seen the damage his other means of imprisonment had left on his kitten's wrists, and it nearly broke his heart.

He had a new place, a place so deep in the woods no one would find them. There, his kitten could forget this life, his family, his being, he could forget all except _him_, and they could live there, together, enjoying one another's company and finding love.

Yes, that was the grand plan. Soon, his kitten wouldn't need to be bound to him, soon, his kitten would follow willingly.

The house was well lit on only one side, and so he made his way to the other, careful to make not a noise as he walked across leaf-and-stem strewn ground. He wouldn't want to alert anyone to his presence. That was what had happened when he had attempted to find another that would quell his thirst and hunger like Dean did. The new one would not have been a replacement, but rather an addition. There was so much fun to be had with two willing kittens, after all.

But this one had fought more than he had expected, leaving him winded and weak after the teen tried to relocate his balls somewhere near his stomach. He had gotten away before the cops showed up, but only barely.

That didn't matter now. He was recovered, and he was ready.

He climbed up the siding of the house to a second story window, glancing in the room to make sure it truly was dark and isolated. He reached into the bag he carried to get out the glass carver, placing it on the window at the angle his friend had told him to. _This way_, he remembered the man saying with a sly grin, _you'll be able to reach in to pull up the latch. You want to share this one?_

That had made him angry, and he had belted his friend much to his chagrin. "No," he had answered after that. "I don't think I'm going to share this one. He's far too precious."

And here he was now, reaching his hand in through the now-broken window, easily finding the latch and sliding it open.

The window creaked, but he figured he was so far away from his boy that no one would notice. Should that mangy mutt come to investigate, he had a silenced pistol in his waistband that would do the trick.

He climbed in, quiet as possible, missing the line of salt at the sill and on the floor below the window. These people-Dean's _family-_and at that word he scoffed, because they weren't his kitten's real family-were weird; he needed to get Dean-his precious boy-away from all this.

Maybe he would take the younger sibling too, he pondered as he slid off his shoes and picked them up, walking across the wood floor in stocking feet and making nary a sound. Yes, taking the little one would keep his kitten compliant and docile, but he really didn't want the younger one.

He wasn't as pretty or good tasting as Dean.

The Man nearly salivated, remembering the way Dean's blood tasted as it slid down his throat from where he bit the boy's neck, remembering the salty taste of flesh as he lifted fingers he had just rubbed along Dean's face to his mouth, reveling in the smell. He remembered how the boy's mouth tasted-even if it was only one glimpse of heaven, and he wanted heaven back; it was temptation to be able to remember how he tasted and to not be able to taste again.

But tonight-tonight he would change all that.

And so his focus, once again, turned to his target. He gripped the door handle, wincing when it creaked as he opened it. He was surprised that the mutt didn't come running, but he thanked God for small favors and made his way down the hall to the stairs.

There he was. He could see his boy-albeit just the side of him, but still-it was so good to see such a familiar sight. He had missed the boy's all American good looks, he had missed his bluish green eyes and he had missed-he had missed everything.

He passed them, wanting to stop, but more eager to ring Dean home, to show him how much he missed the boy-his kitten. These thoughts got him through-these thoughts only.

Dean watched as his little brother settled into the couch, deeply engrossed in the grainy, fuzzy black-and-white movie they had been able to get a signal for off Bobby's old bunny-ears. It was a movie they had seen a few times in a few different cities while one had been sick or when Sam had been young. Even though they had seen it what seemed like a hundred times, Dean was surprised out how much it could still entertain Sammy.

"I'm going to go get another drink."

"And your pills," Sam reminded him without turning from the TV. Dean grinned as he pulled himself up, shaking his head at his brother. "And your pills."

"I'll remember, Sam, promise," he replied, shuffling toward the kitchen.

He hated how he flinched because the hallway was dark, and he hated how fear caused the hairs on his neck to raise, but he pressed on, determined to make it on his own.

The kitchen was dark, and he paused before entering it, letting his fear grow before forcing it under control, reaching to turn on the light. He glanced to either side, as if looking for The Man-though that was impossible; the bastard wouldn't be able to find him with Bobby and his father near.

He opened the refrigerator, pulling out the pitcher of cold water Bobby had started keeping for him. Sometimes, sodas still bothered his stomach, so his father was still pretty adamant that he not drink them-but Dean was working on that.

As he sat the pitcher back in the refrigerator, he tensed, as if feeling a presence behind him. He tried to plan his attack in his head, how he could get to a weapon, how to use his injuries to his advantage…he let out a breath, preparing his first assault-flinging his glass-and turned.

Nothing.

"You're getting paranoid," he muttered to himself, shaking his head, gulping down his water to calm himself down. "Absolutely paranoid."

He opened the frig to pour some more water, gulping it down as well, pouring some more. After three…four…five glasses, he side, empty glass slammed down on the counter.

"What's wrong?'

He jumped, heart racing, glaring at Sam. "Don't _do_ that," he snapped. "God, don't-"

"What's wrong?" Sam repeated, looking at the cup, then at Dean, then around the kitchen, and finally back at Dean. "Did something happen?"

"No, you dummy, if you don't count scaring me to death, of course."

"Sorry. The movie's-it's done, if you want to watch something else-" Sam trailed off.

"No, no….I think I'm just going to go to bed," Dean answered, not meeting his brother's eyes. "I'm tired and-"

"Okay. I'm going to wait up for Dad."

"Sure, Sammy. See you later, kid." He was surprised he didn't tremble as he put his glass in the sink, surprised he didn't shiver as he walked toward the door leading to the front room. "Sam-don't let up your guard?"

Sam's face morphed into confusion, but he nodded. "Course not."

Satisfied, Dean made his way-slow, tiring steps-to the bedroom, a grin reaching up his face as he saw his bed. After the day he had had, this bed was warm comfort-the only sort of comfort he'd be getting, apparently, since he couldn't hunt, apparently had to be babysat, and was still afraid of the dark.

He relaxed as he hit the soft cover of the quilt, letting the cold sink into his body and trying to relieve the stress of the day. Tomorrow-tomorrow had to be better, he thought, eyes closing as he tried to pull sleep to him.

A slight move in the corner cause him to shift, now wide-eyed, awake, concentrating on his worst nightmare.

The Man.

_Oh, God, The Man_.

In the room, by the door, sickening, disgusting grin on his face.

_ Oh, hell_.

"You can't be here-you can't be real," Dean murmured, watching as _The Man_ crossed the room, locking the door.

"Oh, but kitten, I am. It's so good to see you again. I've missed you so."

His heart beat frantically, his smile only growing as the weary boy's body tightened with stress and fright. Oh, my-this he had missed.

This was temptation.

His kitten was home again.

---End Five---


	6. Chapter Six: Refuse

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** I'm so sorry for how long it took me; I've been really busy and I haven't been able to spend as much time on this story as I wanted. If that wasn't enough, apparently my muse committed suicide after chapter six, because it has been MIA for two weeks. If you find it, please kindly return it as I would like to get chapter eight out to you all as soon as possible ;-)

Finally, we're getting into the bulk of the story, but believe me, this is not the end; I was planning on ending it at chapter seven, but that's not happening now; I am aiming for ten, though, just so y'all know.

**Please review; they make my day, and I'm thinking that this time, I'm going to provide a 100-ish word preview for chapter six**. If you review without signing in, make sure you leave an email address to which I can send the preview, but make sure it's in **email(dot)yahoo(dot)com**, or else the review will delete it and I will have no way to get the preview to you.

Sorry for all this rambling on, but here you go…

**Second A/N**: Almost done, I promise. Can I just tell you writing from the perspective of-and details about Dean's relationship with-_The Man_ is pretty… revolting. I do not condone such behavior, and believe people who do stuff like that belong in the ground, preferably in some sort of hellish encounter with the guy down below after being blasted from the guy upstairs. Just so you know.

**Six: Refuse**

_"Spirit-salt and burn. Werewolf-silver bullet to the heart. Vampire-cut off its head. Doppelganger-shoot it_. _The list went on and on and on and on, keeping Dean's mind filled with thoughts other than what awaited him when The Man returned. _

Dean blinked, reality setting in. This wasn't his nightmare, this wasn't a dream-this was the world as he knew it, and in front of him-between him and the only true means of escape-he wouldn't be able to make it out the window with how hurt he was-stood his arch nemesis, grinning like he had just stumbled upon the Holy Grail.

_Well, to him, he has, _Dean reminded himself, sucking in a breath. "I'm not your damned kitten," he managed to get out as he pushed himself off the bed, stumbling back. "And you aren't laying your grubby, foul-ass hands on me again." Those words held more courage and confidence than he felt.

"Now, _buddy_-" The word was foreign on The Man's tongue, not at all comforting like _kitten_, but apparently Dean didn't want to be recognized for what he truly was. "You don't want to make a scene, do you? Even if you did, I doubt your brother could hear us, what with the pills I slipped in his drink when he went to check on you."

If possible, Dean grew even tenser, his good arm searching for a weapon. "I think I'll hold my own. Unlike you, I don't need you to be drugged and doused in sedatives; I'm stronger than you."

The man's grin twitched, and Dean knew he had hit the right spot. He just needed to keep hitting it.

"I don't know why you can't feel what we have, Dean-"

"Maybe because _I. LIKE. WOMEN._ Maybe, because you are a sick freak. And maybe it's just because you're some ordinary nobody that anyone could forget-in fact, I know that's the reason. God, you are so pathetic-"

Dean knew it was getting to The Man. He knew his words were gnawing at him, burning a hole deep inside. "It's getting to you, isn't it? The fact that I can't stand you, and nothing you can do, or say, nothing will change that hate-"

He wasn't prepared for The Man to be so quick, wasn't prepared for the punch that moved him. He recovered quickly, ducking under The Man's next would-be blow, ignoring the biting pain and focusing instead on his own attack, shifting on his feet to throw a wild punch toward The Man's kidneys. It missed-wide left-but he had enough time to throw another one, landing it.

It felt so good to punch the terror of his nightmares.

He was working on his sling, frantic fingers eagerly trying to get it over his head. If there was one thing on him that could cause some damage, it was the plaster-of-paris cast that encased his arm. He felt the sling give way and let it fall, surprised at the soreness in his shoulder but not letting it stop him.

He ducked another punch, then launched his second front, hitting with both fists, landing them, watching The Man stumble back and fall. He smiled, the adrenaline flooding out any pain he had been feeling.

It was that feeling that kept him going.

For so long, he had been ignoring how much pain felt _good _when hurting his kitten. The spark that it sent through his body, the lust of it building as more pain was inflicted. This was the road-this was the road he worked hard not to stumble down, as not to mar his kitten's beautiful body, but Dean had forced his hand-and now he could not bring himself back.

This was everything-the slap of skin against skin as he punched the boy's face-the myriad of purples and reds that were beginning to show-like a piece of artwork he was painting. It was all so very, very beautiful.

Even when Dean knocked him on his ass, the pain-that was all he could focus on. He got back up, and began a merciless regime of punches that had startled and surprised Dean.

Dean still struggled, but he was weak, and his energy began fading nearly as quickly as it came to him. The Man could see this, and smiled. This was what he wanted-and now, bruised and battered-Dean looked a picture of temptation.

Almost tempting enough to take him here and now.

No, he decided quickly. He would not ruin their first experience by having it _here_.

He readied his syringe, preparing to inject it. "I promise, kitten, soon, very soon," he whispered, leaning down, capturing Dean's lips.

Dean gasped as The Man kissed him, not realizing that his gasp would be an open invitation for that _stupid, sick, perverted freak_ to slip his tongue in for some action. Dean tensed as he felt the man's hand crawling lower, skimming the bottom of Dean's t-shirt to the top of his sweats. Dean tried to move, but the weight of The Man's body was heavy, and he was too weak to make any sort of actual attempt of escape that way.

But then he felt cold fingers pressing against the very lowest part of his belly, and it was as if a jolt of realization ran through his body: he had to do something or something was going to do him.

_Think_, he snapped to himself, trying to ignore the burning path the hand was making, now inside his sweats. _No, no, no, nonononononononono_

He bit down as hard as possible on the tongue inside his mouth. He could taste the rusty tang of blood, blood that filled his mouth, but he wouldn't let go. He felt the reverberations of The Man's screams, felt his hand move away from his sweats, and he finally let go, trying to scramble to his feet.

And then he felt the slight sting of a hypodermic needle, and he stepped back, eyes on the needle in his shoulder. "You bastard."

The Man stood, grinning wildly as he spit out the blood out of his mouth, coming forward.

"Dean, kitten, I never was going to play fair," the man said sadly, reaching out to stroke the teen's cheek, smiling. "Just a few more minutes, and then our life can start-" He chuckled, once, as Dean pawed at his hand, backing up. "It's okay, buddy-" there was that foreign word again, the one that didn't sit well on his tongue, "just relax and let it sink in."

Through the haze of the drugs taking effect, he tried to collect his thoughts, tried to make one last valiant attempt to escape, backing towards his bed-the window!-The Man following closely.

He felt nothing but pain run through his brain as his cast cracked with the force it took to twist the man's nose halfway across his face. And then he felt himself go, felt his legs turn to jelly underneath him as he turned, trying to make it to the door before they totally gave out and he fell. His forehead cracked against something solid as he fell. There was nothing for the longest time. No reality, but also no memories. No…no anything.

Sam sat by his brother's side, listening to the constant heart beat from the monitor, eyes watching the ventilator pump air into his lungs. His big form was curled into his chair, his chin on his knees, tears already dried, more on the way.

"Please wake up," he murmured, squeezing his brother's hand, trying to be careful of the two swollen, taped fingers from where The Man had stomped on them-just to make him feel pain. "I'm sorry."

"Sam, you have to go with Bobby," John said from the doorway, barely glancing to the still form on the bed. "You need some rest. The doctor said-"

"I don't care what the damn doctor said! I'm fine."

Sam flinched as he felt his father's hand clamp on his shoulder, trying to be comforting-but it was a cold comfort, a comfort he couldn't let himself enjoy. "Son, this isn't helping Dean. This isn't going to bring him back, make him wake up-this is just going to hurt you."

"You would say that, wouldn't you? You think he's weak now, think he's someone different because he was…you are a bastard."

"Don't you dare say that to me, Samuel. I love that boy no matter what. I don't care if he thinks different-he is my son, and I love him no matter what. So I don't want to hear those words come out of your mouth again or so help me God, I don't carry how dizzy you are, I will hit you. You don't think that I want Dean up? You don't think that I want him around? You'd be wrong. But this is second time in a month that he's been in the hospital because of some bastard that is still walking around, alive! So I'm going to find him, and do what the cops obviously can't."

Sam softened. "But Dad, maybe you should be here instead of out hunting for some shadow in the night. Dean needs you here."

John stood over his oldest son, his hand trailing down the bruised side of his face, biting his lip. "I'm sorry, son. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you like I should have. And I'm sorry you got hurt again." He gulped, taking the hand that Sam let go of, leaning down to press his forehead against it, sucking in a breath. "I'm going to find him and kill him, I promise. I won't let you down this time. But I'll stay here longer, and visit more often, okay? I promise you that, too."

Sam smiled, a small, small smile, and he stood. "I'll go find Bobby."

John nodded, watching his youngest son retreat, leaving him and Dean alone in the quiet room, only the heart monitor left for noise.

_It would be the Winchester luck that Bobby and John get a flat tire ten minutes from the house which took them nearly an hour to change. The lug nuts stuck, and it took forever to get them off. But finally-_finally!_-they were back. _

_ John knew something was wrong when he walked into the house and found Sam sleeping on the couch with the bedroom door shut. He raced to the door, pushing it open, fear wrapping his heart and squeezing it tight. _

_ Dean lay in the center of the room, blood spattered around him, on his white t-shirt, on the wall near the bed. The window was open, and John wondered by how much he had missed The Man. He turned back to his son, kneeling by the prone body, fingers searching for a pulse. "Please, please, please…" he muttered, and it would have been a prayer if John had been a praying man._

_It was there, albeit thready at best._

"Mr. Winchester?" He glanced up to the nurse walking in the room, carrying another IV bag. "Time to change his fluids. It will only take me a minute."

He nodded once. "And he should be waking up soon. All the sedatives were flushed out of his system, and the anesthetic should be wearing off soon. He'll be groggy, of course-"

"I know the drill," John barked sharply to the woman as she worked the IV bag into the port in Dean's wrist, taping the line down and straightening it out."

"I forgot how recently you were in the hospital. I'm sorry, sir," she breathed out, not looking at him. She took down the old bag and opened his chart, marking something on the file before returning it to its place. "We also had a Detective Lewis call; he said he would be here in less than an hour."

"Of course he will." John was tired of _Detective Lewis_. The man couldn't even catch the guy who had made his son hurt-_multiple times_-and yet he continued to badger Dean and the whole Winchester family, asking inane questions and irritating an already-sick kid.

_Not this time, _John promised himself as the nurse left the room. Detective Lewis would answer _his_ questions this time, and he would find out why there had been no leads when obviously The Man _had _been watching Dean, had known where to find him.

_"John-"_

_ "Bobby, call an ambulance. He's still breathing, but it's weak. I think he was drugged."_

_ "Is he hurt?'_

_ "Yeah. He's got blood…everywhere, his face is swollen-he looks like he got the hell beat out of him. So yes, Bobby, he is hurt."_

_"Don't get smart with me, John. Sam's coming around-whatever he took obviously wasn't meant to keep him out for that long. Probably long enough to get Dean out. But I guess Dean gave the bastard a run for his money-"_

_ "Bobby, just call, will ya?" John interrupted, not wanting to be reminded of _what-might-have-been_. He wanted his son to be better-and he wanted his son to be safe._

_ The only way that was going to happen was if he went after _The Man_ himself, and showed him what a real man could do to him._

John glared at Detective Lewis as he entered the room. "I'm not too happy with you at the moment," he snapped, feeling some sort of…_pride_ swell inside as the detective flinched just a little. "He wasn't supposed to come after Dean again. You were supposed to find him. You told us-you would find him."

"John, we're doing the best we can-"

"_That's_ what I hate about cops. Your best isn't good enough. You need to get better. When I don't do something to my best, when I fail-I adapt. You aren't. You are languishing and you are forgetting that there is some sick, perverted _freak_ out there who has his mind set on _my_ son, and that puts my son in danger!"

"John, you have every right to be angry-"

John interrupted the cop again, shaking his head. "I'm not just angry, I'm furious! I'm pissed off! I want you to get off your damn ass and do your job and find that goddamn man that won't leave my kid alone! And if you can't, then I will!" He was shouting, surely disturbing other patients and doctors and nurses, but he didn't care. He needed his point to be made, and if there was one way John Winchester had learned to make an effective point, it was by yelling. People took him serious when he yelled. "You see my kid? _Dean_ was with that sicko for six weeks before he stumbled upon you-you didn't even find him! And now, with his full cooperation, you can't even get one man off the street!

"We're trying," Lewis managed to get in-a feeble attempt-looking properly chastised. "Look, Mr. Winchester, I know this isn't the progress you were hoping for, but it's something to have that photo and a name. Do you realize how many unsolved sexual abuse cases there are across the country? In our county? There are countless ones. So a name, and a face-that's good.

"And I know it's not what you want. It's not what we want either. I wish I could find him and arrest this guy, but it takes time to search-we are doing our best though, John."

"Your best is going to get my son killed or worse if you don't catch this guy soon," John replied, eyes on Dean's swollen face.

_"It's just the bruising," the doctor warned him as he led John and Sam to Dean's room, not that they didn't know punching would cause such damage. One side of Dean's face was swollen, his eye closed and black and blue from the bruises. A nasty cut ran across his forehead from where he had hit the bedside table, and another was on his other cheek. There was an awful black bruise on his chin. "He's actually in pretty good shape."_

_ "What is pretty good shape?" Sam asked, eyes on the odd contraption that held Dean's broken arm. _

_ "He obviously got some bad bruising, and he has a slight fracture in his mandible that I'm going to monitor to make sure it's stable, but I don't want to do any surgery on it until I have to. His ribs are bruised, but that's just adding onto an old injury-" John nodded. "His arm, unfortunately, was rebroken, and we have his doctor consulting in order to-"_

_ "Fix it?" John supplied, and the doctor nodded._

_ "Yes, fix it. His ilium was badly bruised, but it wasn't an actual break, so we're also going to monitor that without surgical aid for as long as possible. Also, he was injected with a large dose of two separate, heavy-duty sedatives, a mixture of Pentobarbital and Lorazepam. For him to have one in his system would be a concern-to have both is disheartening and dangerous. We've begun to flush them out of his system, but he-they could have done serious damage. Highly unlikely, but there is that risk. In my opinion, he's going to be okay."_

_ "So he's going to be all right?"_

_ The doctor smiled. "I'm sure he's going to be just fine, Mr. Winchester."_

The room was fuzzy, and his head was stuffy.

Dean wanted to complain, but it seemed like his throat wasn't working. He waited for the fuzziness to go away, for the pain to recede, but none of that happened, and he wondered idly if he had died and gone to hell. He probably deserved to go there for being a broken, pathetic child who couldn't even fight off a measly human.

"Easy, Ace, easy," he heard a voice whisper, getting louder, and louder to the point of shouting. "Calm down-everything is okay, son, I promise."

"Dad-" he managed to get out, gulping in air, feeling it burn down his throat and into his lungs, the burn and fire turning to a tickle, which smoldered into a cough, and he felt like he was on fire, his whole body heaving as he hacked. He could feel pressure on his back, and shivers spread through him.

"Dean, Dean, calm down!"

John was shouting now, for a nurse, for a doctor, for anybody. His son was gasping, sobbing, coughing, all at the same time, and John could do nothing but rub his back, try to calm him down. "Dean," he tried again, but the teen struggled, as if hearing someone besides his father. "C'mon buddy-"

_Buddy. Now buddy, you don't want to make a scene, do you?_ He whimpered, pulling away from the hands, which let him go.

John watched desperately as a nurse and orderly restrained his struggling son, the nurse injecting something into his IV. The effects took over in minutes, and Dean was laid back, his body still tense, but his fight ceasing. "Dean?" John whispered, softly, oddly, not the normal tone he used with his eldest son. "Dean, it's me-"

"D…Dad," Dean choked out, eyes opening wide. "Dad-"

"I'm right here," John promised, hand on Dean's leg so that his son could feel the pressure. "It's okay, you're fine. Nothing bad happened-"

Dean scoffed, a single tear spilling over his bottom eyelids. "You don't know that. You don't know what happened," he murmured, looking at his broken fingers. "Dad-"

John felt his heart seize. "Did something happen, Dean?" He glared at the nurse and orderly, who scampered out of the room, and he closed the door behind them. "You can tell me, Ace, I promise it won't leave this room." Dean sniffed, bottom lip quivering and John saw the tears that were building to flood. "Did he touch you? Did he-"

"NO!" Dean yelped, the tears falling, and John knew he was lying. "Nothing…nothing like that happened, Dad."

"Then what did, Dean? I need to know. I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need to make sure you get taken care of properly, even if that means they need to test you and-"

"He touched me. Not-not what you're thinking of Dad, I promise." Dean sucked in air, letting it out before continuing. "It was on its way there. He kissed me, tried to shove his tongue down my throat. I tried to bite it off."

John smiled, just a little. "You aren't weak, Dean. I don't know why you think I think that, but I don't. I know you aren't weak, and I don't think you're broken. You're still Dean, still my crazy, teenage, hormone-driven, bad ass demon killing son. _That's _how I see you-not as anything else. Some guy took advantage of the fact that you weren't feeling well, that you were off your game-and you still gave him hell.

"I didn't ask you to make you think that you were weak. I had to ask to make sure I shouldn't be doing more-like counseling or-"

Dean quirked an eyebrow, snorting. "Or not," he answered, looking at his hand. "I don't remember doing this."

"Apparently the guy stepped on them on his way out."

"What a bastard-kick a man while he's down."

_A joke_, John thought, his small smile growing before he sobered. "Son, you're trying to get me off the topic, but I won't-"

"Or, maybe, I'm just trying to forget about it, Dad. I don't want to remember, because if I do I'm going to remember the hand that decided it wanted to fondle me, or those-I'm going to remember the way his lips felt or something…something that makes me want to throw up. So yes, I'm moving on. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to remember it now, because I'm sure I will in the morning, or during my nightmares. So I don't want to talk about it anymore."

"Okay, Dean, okay," John acquiesced, not expecting such a detailed answer-his son wasn't the sharing type, and for Dean to admit so much took a big effort on his part. "What do you want to talk about?"

_At least one of us believes what I say_, he thought, plastering a big, fake smile on his face in reward of his father's acquiescence.


	7. Chapter Seven: Black

**Title: Six Weeks**

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes: **I'm sorry I have been totally MIA for two weeks; Memorial day and dog kennel do **not **mix and I've been spending all my time there. Add into that that I completely rewrote chapter seven, and you have a long delay. Also: I know I promised replies and a preview for chapter seven, but I'm sorry that I didn't get to them. Thank you all for your reviews. Also, to answer the one question that kept popping up: **Dean got away from the man because John and Bobby arrived home early**_**. **_I thought I made that clear, but apparently it didn't come across like I wanted it.

There are only three chapters left after this! Please review; it makes my day!

**Second A/N**: Almost done, I promise. Can I just tell you writing from the perspective of-and details about Dean's relationship with-_The Man_ is pretty… revolting. I do not condone such behavior, and believe people who do stuff like that belong in the ground, preferably in some sort of hellish encounter with the guy down below after being blasted from the guy upstairs. Just so you know.

**Seven: Black**

Dean blinked several times, trying to clear the fogginess that ran rampant through his brain. He mouth felt dry, as if cotton had been stuffed there to soak up any liquid produced. He tried to focus, to pull himself into reality through the gradual clearing of fog, and he grimaced as he moved slightly.

He was in a room. By himself.

Like a very recent nightmare he had encountered.

_Oh, holy shit_.

* * *

"How did he just _walk out_ with my son?" John's voice boomed across the room in the hospital to the two idiot security guards standing around, dumbfounded. "You had a picture of the guy! How did he just waltz in and take my son?"

"Mr. Winchester, we are doing our best to try-"

"Your best isn't good enough! Dean is hurt, is sick, and this is the man that caused all of that! Do you not understand? This guy wants to ra…" he stumbled on the word, but swallowed, gathering his anger to push forward. "He wants to rape my son and you just gave him a free pass into his room! You are supposed to be competent!"

Detective Lewis rested against the wall, looking at the hospital bed, sheets askew and several IV lines hanging from empty bags above puddles of medicine.

Just like the first time, Dean Winchester had seemingly disappeared into thin air with _The Man_. He had been sleeping off a sedative given because of a panic attack, just hours from being discharged, and then he was gone.

"You weren't supposed to lose him!" John snapped at the poor man in front of the security guards, some hospital administrator sent in to calm John and ease the possibility of a lawsuit. "You weren't supposed to let this happen! I was gone for less than an hour! I was still in the hospital!" He gasped, two stray tears falling down his face.

Detective Lewis had never seen John Winchester cry, but as he watched the man stumble and collapse to his knees, he felt his heart tighten in pain. He pushed himself off the wall, walking to the fallen man, squeezing his shoulder. "I will find him, John. I'll do whatever it takes."

"He has my son, again," John murmured, shaking his head.

"What's going on?"

Six faces turned to Sam Winchester, standing in the doorway, wide eyes on his father, moving to the empty bed, then back to his father. "Where's Dean?"

"Sam-" John tried, making no move to get up, frightening the twelve-year-old even more as he walked into the room, book bag dropping to the ground in a forgotten heap as he made his way to the bed.

"Where's Dean, Dad?" he asked again, turning to face his father. "He was here this morning."

"He's gone, Sammy," John explained, finally standing, only far enough to be eye-to-eye with his son. "The Man took him again."

"Dad-" Sam gasped, shaking his head. "No-he wasn't supposed…he was supposed to be safe here! This is a hospital! He was supposed to be safe!"

"I know, Sam," John soothed his youngest, holding him tight as sobs started racing through his body, jelly-legs giving out on him. "Oh, buddy, I know."

"Dad-Dean's not going to survive this, is he?" Sam whispered, pulling away from his father, wiping his eyes. "This time-he's not going to survive."

John thought about lying; it would be easy to tell Sam that Dean would be just fine, that he was tought, that he was able, but not even John believed that, not with the current condition his eldest son had been in when he was kidnapped.

Instead of answering, he turned to the detective. "What do you know?"

"He left about forty minutes to an hour ago with Dean in a wheelchair. He had a truck, and we're running the plates now. We already got the picture and APB out to the local cops, and we're going to do our best to find him before something happens, John, I promise. I won't let The Man win, I promise. We'll find him again."

He didn't promise that statement.

* * *

He had been left alone.

Dean didn't know why that was significant, but he had been left alone to wallow in his misery and he was almost grateful of that. He was grateful _The Man_ hadn't been there to see him break down as he realized where he was, as he realized that he was once again in the hands of some psychotic pervert.

He hadn't been chained or tied up this time, and he wondered if _The Man _ really thought he was that broken.

He then realized that he was still so sore and bruised that walking would probably hurt really badly at that point in time. He had a broken arm and broken fingers, and so _The Man _probably felt relatively safe leaving Dean unbound. It wasn't like he could go anywhere.

_Ace, that's not the way you should be thinking_, he could hear his father say.

_Dean, you are smart. You can figure it out_, he could hear Sammy encouraging him.

He blinked as he heard footsteps approaching.

This wasn't the same house as before. The walls seemed thinner somehow, more brittle. There was no hole in the top for the line of twine to run through, and there was nothing in the room besides him.

_Stop thinking bad thoughts_ he berated himself, _and find a way out. You aren't dumb, and you can certainly outsmart some ordinary nobody. You hunt demons, for God sakes! You are a bad-ass, demon-killing machine and you better start acting like it_.

Slowly, carefully, he stood, a little shaky at first, but then the confidence began to fill his body. He would meet his enemy head on, show a strength that _The Man_ did not possess.

He would find a way to survive.

The door opened, and he felt muscles bunch and tense, pain drifting through his body as the door opened. _The Man_ walked in, pulling a chair, carrying a bowl. He grinned when he saw Dean. "You're awake. I didn't think you would be."

"And miss this wonderful reunion?" Dean snapped, eyebrow raising. "Now, why would I want to do that?"

"Why indeed, kitten." He paused, setting the bowl down. "Well, here we are, back to normal."

"If this is normal for you…" Dean replied, backing up as _The Man_ stalked toward him. "Stay away from me!"

"This again, my Dean? And here I thought we were getting along so well," _The Man_ answered, reaching out to press his hand on the swollen side of Dean's face, grinning wide as Dean grimaced in pain, trying to pull away. The man's grip tightened to an unbearable pressure, and Dean felt the tears leaving his eyes. "See, kitten? I've found a new game for us to play together. I know how much you enjoy when we do stuff together. I didn't want to disappoint you." He let go of Dean, the teenager stumbling back and falling, trying to let the pain in his body subside before he answered.

"You sick fuck," he muttered, spitting out the blood from where he had bit his tongue. "You think I…_approve_ of you? God, get it through your thick skull: I don't."

"Now, that's not nice, kitten," the man whispered, reaching down to run his hand through Dean's hair, pulling tight, his once-faded grin returning as Dean hissed in pain. "But I'll make it nice. For both of us, I promise."

* * *

John was panicking inside.

He had lost his son to that man again.

Allen Albright was his name.

The detectives saw no reason to keep it a secret anymore with the kidnapping being splashed across the media. Tips had been pouring in, and Lewis was gong over them meticulously, running through them with a fine-toothed comb, not wanting to miss any potential clue that might lead to the return of Dean Winchester.

John Winchester was panicking, but at his core, hatred for Allen Albright ran through his body and all he could think about was revenge. He would rip the man's throat out through his chest, he would obliterate whatever heart was left. He would shoot so many bullets through Allen Albright's battered body that no one would recognize him.

He would kill Allen Albright given the chance.

Instead, he stayed with Sam, both being watched over by Bobby, and waited for news.

The detectives wouldn't let him help. Despite what he had gone through, he couldn't help in the investigation. _You have to trust us_, Lewis had said. _You have to trust that we will find Dean_.

Except that John _didn't_ trust them.

"We got video!"

John's head snapped up, and he pulled away from his youngest son to follow the detectives, grins spreading across their faces. "Video?" he said, and the one he didn't know-Lewis' partner-nodded.

"The truck turned onto a rural road north of here about an hour ago. There is nothing out there but a couple old hunting cabins near a lake."

"We've got them," Lewis said as he pulled away from a walkie. "We're gonna go get Dean now, John, I promise. We're going to find him. He's going to be fine."

"I need to come."

"I'm sorry, John, but I can't let you. Wait here, and I will call you as soon as we find out something. He'll be coming here when we get him, so stay here, okay? I can't have you all over there…"

For once, John agreed.

* * *

Dean felt the kicks as _The Man's_ heavy boots slammed into his ribs, but he made no noise. He had figured out what made the man tick, what made him happy, and that was to hear Dean struggle. He liked to hear the sounds of whimpers and mewls and he got off on it.

Dean refused to give him any of that.

He had been tortured for nearly an hour, had been kicked and punched over and over again. _The Man _had not once tried to touch him sexually, and Dean wondered if the man's obsession had gone from sex to violence.

He would rather have the violence, to tell you the truth. He could take this pain. This pain wasn't something that would haunt him forever. He took beatings every now and then, and all it was physical pain. If he had to suffer through the violence of being forced, the scars were likely to never heal.

"Are you ready to play proper now, kitten?" the man whispered, kneeling down beside him, brushing some hair off Dean's forehead. His hand trailed down to the bottom of Dean's t-shirt, and he smiled, hooking a finger underneath, beginning to pull the thin piece of cotton up, over Dean's abdomen and chest, pausing as if to figure out how best to get it over Dean's broken arm.

_You and your big mouth_, Dean chided himself, entire body freezing with tension as the man's finger left a burning trail up his chest.

Suddenly, the shirt fell, and he felt his breath being released, body relaxing.

Two hand fisted in the cotton and _ripped_. The shirt broke apart in two pieces, cool air against his upper body making him shiver. "So beautiful when you move for me, Dean," _The Man_ said, looking at the shirt. "Well, now we have a dilemma."

He carelessly pulled Dean's sling off, smiling brightly when Dean screamed.

It was the first big sound his kitten had made, and he was thrilled.

"I think you rather liked that," he whispered in Dean's ear, lips pressing down on the skin there, cold, clammy. He felt something rough against his skin, trailing downward-_A tongue!. _Dean jerked his head away, struggling.

The man twisted one of his broken fingers.

He cried out, angry, frustrated tears running down his pale cheeks as the man resumed his journey. He flinched as the man bit down, just below his collar bone, hard, as if trying to raise blood. When he was done with his exploration, _The Man _sat up, and Dean realized he was being straddled.

"See, kitten, you're just sitting here so prettily and letting me have my way with you. I told you, you would learn. It just took a little bit of time." And then he leaned in, cold , clammy lips pressing down on Dean's own, hard, rough, demanding more.

_See kitten, you're just sitting here so prettily and letting me have my way with you. I told you, you would learn_. _See kitten, you're just sitting here so prettily and letting me have my way with you. I told you, you would learn_. _See kitten, you're just sitting here so prettily and letting me have my way with you. I told you, you would learn_. _See kitten, you're just sitting here so prettily and letting me have my way with you. I told you, you would learn_.

He was. He was giving up hope. He was becoming some man's _bitch_.

_NO!_ his inner John and Sam yelled in unison, and he smiled a little, feeling the fight that had been waning return in full force.

His casted hand rested against one shoulder of The Man, the good one pressing against the other, in a move The Man deemed loving-Dean could tell by the way The Man relaxed-and he pushed, as hard as he could.

The only smile in the room was Dean's as he watched The Man-his tormentor, his torturer, the terror of his dreams-land flat on his ass.

He stood, shaky, and kicked The Man as hard as possible. "I'm. Not. Your. Kitten!" he snarled, kicking him again. "I. Hate. You!"

The Man grabbed his ankle, and he was so unstable that he fell to the ground, knees catching the impact hard. The Man climbed on top of him, hands wrapping around Dean's neck. "You will learn, kitten! You will love me! You will cherish me! You will be mine forever!" He was squeezing tightly, and dark spots began to dance around Dean's head.

He was going to pass out, he thought, mind racing.

_"Here you go, Sammy; I fixed your army man," eight-year-old Dean said, handing Sam the brand new toy. No need to tell him that his older, beloved one lay in the trash, and Dean's hard earned money was gone, to the toy store for the replacement._

* * *

_"You're getting to be a good shot, Ace," John complimented the eleven-year-old, clapping his eldest son on the back as Dean stared at the target proudly, the bullet hole through the center._

* * *

_"I don't want to go on a hunt," Sam complained to his fourteen-year-old brother. "I want to go to school. I want to be normal."_

_ "We are normal, Sammy. We're just a little...screwed up with our definition."_

_ "But, Dean-"_

_ "C'mon, Sam, go on the hunt with us. I want your company."_

* * *

_"Dean-" he said as he approached the bed. "You're here."_

_ "I am," Dean answered, a slight smile on his face. "Sam."_

_ Sam touched his brother's arm, gently, surprised when Dean's fingers curled around his. "I knew you would come back."_

_ "I knew you wouldn't give up. That's what got me through it-through all of it."_

* * *

_"Ace-" he murmured, seeing his son jump, eyes widen when he saw his father. "Buddy-"_

_ "I tried, Dad. I tried to fight. I just got tired," he heard Dean whisper as he approached the boy. John was surprised how he didn't react when he hugged his son, hugged him as tight as he could without hurting him. "I'm so tired-"_

_ "I know, Ace; I need you to hang in a little bit longer, okay? The doctor needs to examine you, to make sure you're all right. I'll stay with you during it all; I won't let anyone hurt you. But they've got to do it."_

_ "No," Dean murmured, shaking a little. "Dad-"_

_ "Son, I need you to be strong and let them do this. If you have damage internally, or broken bones-"_

_ "Fine, but you won't leave?"_

_ "No, son, I won't," John promised, letting out a sigh of relief as he nodded to the doctor._

He felt himself fading, the black spots spreading to become a black background.

**Just a little cliffie...enjoy the rest of your day! Sorry about the formatting-I uploaded this from a different computer that didn't have word and the formatting got screwed up!  
**


	8. Chapter Eight: Steps

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** Um…hi guys? I know it's been a month and you probably are all like _where the hell has she been and what in the heck as she been doing_, but I'm here with chapter eight. I know, I know, it's been forever, but work is really being a you-know-what, and I just haven't been inspired.

But finally, after a really Dean-worthy fanmix playing religiously for the past few days, I have chapter eight for you!

**Please review; they make my day, and I reward with a 100 word-ish preview for chapter nine.** If you review without signing in, make sure you leave an email address to which I can send the preview, but make sure it's in **email(dot)yahoo(dot)com**, or else the review will delete it and I will have no way to get the preview to you.

Sorry for all this rambling on, but here you go…

**Second A/N**: Almost done, I promise. Can I just tell you writing from the perspective of-and details about Dean's relationship with-_The Man_ is pretty… revolting. I do not condone such behavior, and believe people who do stuff like that belong in the ground, preferably in some sort of hellish encounter with the guy down below after being blasted from the guy upstairs. Just so you know.

**Eight: Steps**

"NO!"

The scream-a harsh whisper, but a scream nonetheless-filled the air, and Dean shoved with all his might, feeling the hands loosen on his neck as the body in front of him ran into the wall. He heard the crack of the man's skull against the wall as his head bounced off of it, and the body dropped in front of Dean, dead weight.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead.

The Man was…dead.

He made sure, checking the pulse, and he smiled, nearly crazy-like, at the thought that the plague of his life was gone.

He stood, slowly, the adrenaline long-since-fading and the soreness overcoming him, and took slow, shaky steps to the door, which he opened.

He was faced with a single room, no furniture, what looked to be abandoned. _What is with this guy and abandoned buildings?_ he thought to himself as he limped across the room towards the front door. _And forests_, he amended, looking out to the thick, dense forest surrounding the building. "You can do this," he murmured, taking a step off the porch and onto the rocky, gravel road.

He walked.

He limped.

He moved so slow he thought he saw a snail pass him by.

But he left, and that was all that mattered to him at the moment in time.

The road was long and bendy and deserted.

Absolutely deserted.

He had paused for a minute, to figure out where he was, how he was going to keep stumbling along without help. He knew he was fading, pain rode out on waves to all parts of his body, and his throat felt like it was clogged and tight and he could barely breathe.

He needed help.

He wasn't hurt bad, or at least much worse than he had been before _The Man_ had waltzed into his room and injected something into his IV why he tried to fight, only to flail and finally succumb to whatever drug had been introduced into his system. The kicks _The Man_ had delivered left bruises, and might have fractured a rib, and his broken arm might have been jolted, but it still certainly felt just as broken as it had been before the sling had been pulled off.

His energy had been sapped out, it seemed, and he wondered if he could move any slower, but he kept going, kept pushing himself to take another step, and another, and another. He needed to find help, or else he wasn't sure he'd survive the night.

_And how pathetic would that be, to kill _The Man_ and then die in the process of escaping?_ he thought bitterly, stopping again after he stumbled on the gravel. His feet were bruised, cut, battered from walking along the road, but they wouldn't stop him from finding someone-anyone-to help him.

He began again, limping slowly, trying to be cautious of the gravel that would hurt the most, but wanting to hurry as fast as he could.

He walked.

And walked.

And walked.

And stopped again, pain sparking as he stepped on an especially sensitive spot.

He realize that his feet were bleeding. Walking on the sharp points had ripped at the thick skin of his heel, and he was now the proud owner of a two-inch gash on his right foot.

_Just wonderful_, he thought, shaking his head. _Just great. Here I am, badass, demon-killing machine, and I'm complaining about a cut on the foot. How proud my father would be_.

He started walking again, staring down the long, bendy, deserted road, and wondered how much farther he could go before he'd have to stop permanently.

Sam stared down the road that led into the forest, wondering where it held his brother. He wondered how far away his brother was, if he was only a couple of feet, or miles upon miles away. His eyebrows furrowed as he stared, and he watched the dust blow across the old road into the forest. It held mystery, and he was curious.

He took a step forward, only to be jerked backwards by his father. "You're staying here," John said to his youngest son. "You wait for Bobby, you understand me?"

"Dad, Dean is out there, somewhere. He might be hurt, or he might need me-"

"And we'll get him back, but you aren't being sacrificed as another potential pawn for some man's sick, cruel, perverted game. So you stay here, by this car, do you understand me?"

Sam watched his father's moves, watched as he glanced at the cops. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going after Dean. You're staying by the car."

"Dad-"

"Stay, son. I-"

"Dad, I wasn't going to say that. I was going to say be careful, and kill the bastard. And bring Dean back in one piece, please."

John nodded, and both Winchesters glanced to the cops, watching, studying, preparing for the moment in time John could slip away without noticing. Sam knew that when he saw the opportunity, John would be gone.

And this nightmare would finally-finally-be coming to an end. There would be no more terrors, no more possibilities of _The Man_ coming for Dean. They could find their way back to their lives, and all would be well again.

Sam could only hope.

"Hey, Sam. Where's your father?"

He looked up at Detective Lewis, studying the man hard before shifting in his seat. "I don't know where my father is," he replied honestly.

"What do you mean you don't know? He brought you here, right? In this car, if I'm not mistaken."

"Yeah, he did. And he told me to wait for Bobby Singer-that's who we've been staying with. I don't know where he is. I thought he went to find you," Sam lied effortlessly.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir." Sam gave puppy-dog eyes, knowing they would work, and grinned when the man rolled his eyes and walked away. Puppy-dog Sam eyes _always_ worked.

"So where is he, really?" Bobby asked as he climbed into the driver's seat of the Impala.

"Why do you think he's not where I said he was?"

"Don't get all smart with me, Sam. First, you're alone; John wouldn't have left you alone to go find Detective Lewis. Second, Dean's somewhere around here, lost, and John wouldn't leave him like that. Third, and probably the most important: I've been looking for John for nearly ten minutes and he's not here. So where is he?"

"Dad took off just a minute ago to go find Dean since these stupid cops can't do it for themselves," Sam explained, glancing at Bobby.

"And he just left you here?"

"I told him to," Sam answered. "For the first time in years, Dean has come first to him. For the first time, it isn't about Yellow Eyes or hunting or me; it's about Dean. So I told him to go."

"You know, your father loves you. He loves both of you very much."

"I know, Bobby, and I'm not saying he doesn't. But he doesn't always put us first, and for the first time, it seems like he is. So I told him to go and find my brother."

"Well, I'll stay with you," Bobby said, and Sam nodded. "How long do you think it'll take Lewis to figure out that John's long gone?"

Sam grinned, leaning back in the chair. "I'm hoping only as long as it takes Dad to find Dean."

He had been walking for what seemed like _hours_, and now the rain was starting.

"You know, if you wanted to make it any worse for me," he called up to the sky, "just throw in a tornado or two and call it a day."

Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance, and he smirked. "Thanks for your cooperation in all this, really."

Lightning struck in reply, and his face sobered. "Now, really, I don't need that. I'm handicapped here, and the least you could do is show me a little mercy while I try to get back to my family. Just a little mercy."

The rain kept pouring down, and Dean let out a curse, glancing behind him, wondering if he should go back to the cabin and wait out the storm. Then his mind drifted to the dead body laying on the floor of the empty room, and he cringed, shaking his head. "I can't go back there," he murmured, his breath coming rapidly. "Oh God, I can't go back there."

He continued down the road, wondering where in the hell he was and when he would find a road that lead him back to the world, and, more importantly, his family.

_The Man_ dying had lifted something off his heart, and he felt like now he could recover and be normal again. He could finally see some sort of blue sky on the other side of this, and for once in what felt like awhile, his hope was tangible.

But then he though _I killed a human_, and the guilt settled on his shoulders, in his heart, and he let out a strangled cry as his hope fluttered away, the rain washing it from him.

He let out a breath, feeling the cool rain run down his body, almost soothing if not for the fact that he was hurt _and_ in the middle of nowhere. Once he got better, got stronger, he promised himself he'd just sit out in the rain one day, and listen.

But for now, he just had to keep walking. He kept walking, eventually someone would come.

So he took yet another step.

Sam watched the detectives move around, watched as they watched him suspiciously. "I think they know," he murmured to Bobby, who was also watching, watching as they came near.

"Me too, kid; I think they know, too."

He climbed out of the car, giving Detective Lewis a smile as he approached. "Have you found my brother yet?"

"No, but we can't find your dad, either. Know anything about that?"

Sam bit his bottom lip, shaking his head. "He was looking for you; have you lost him, too?" he practically snapped, glaring at the man. "That seems to be your job, right? Losing people?"

"Sam!" Bobby chastised, climbing out of the car. "That was inappropriate."

"But it was true. He did lose my brother. I thought it wasn't going to take this long to search here? I thought you said it would be easy to find him? I thought-"

"It takes time, Sam. We want to do a good job, and to do that we have to be thorough-"

"Is that all you can say, that it takes time? Because my brother is rapidly running out of that, and that always seems to be your excuse," Sam accused the man. "So yeah, my dad left to find my brother since you…imbeciles obviously can't."

Bobby watched as Sam trekked back to the car, mouth slack jaw. "I have no words-" he started to apologize to the detective, who shook his head to cut the older man off.

"I'm used to being yelled at, especially by frustrated family members. It's understandable, and I get used to it."

"I know, but it must hurt sometimes, being told you aren't doing enough."

"In reality, I'm not. I have to go through certain channels, and if John can find him through unorthodox manners, I'm okay with that. I want Allen Albright dead just like the rest of you. No man like that deserves to live. But I can't be that biased on the job. I have to go through the proper channels, and sometimes that takes time and victim's families get very angry with me. So I don't need your apologies, I assure you. I'm just going to pretend that John is still searching for me."

Bobby grinned, watching the detective walk away, and then turned back to Sam, ready to chastise him.

They were getting closer, he felt. Closer to Dean.

He was ragged, the rain battering him over and over and over again. He had walked farther, sure, but not with his injuries, and their severity, and not with the rain hindering him. He wanted to do more, wanted to find someone, but he couldn't.

He looked upwards again, shaking his head. "A little help, that's all I ask," he murmured, pushing his soaked hair off his face.

"A little help?"

He jumped, fist coming out, and he fell as his father easily ducked the blow. "Dad?" he said, and John smiled. "Dad!" His father's warm arms wrapped around him, tightening against him.

"I'm here, Dean, I promise," he whispered, keeping his son as close as possible. "How? How did you-"

"_The Man_'s dead, Dad. I killed him. I killed him-"

John's grip tightened, and he smiled against his son's forehead. "I'm so proud of you, Dean. I am so proud of you."

"Dad, I just want to get out of here. I just want to get back to normal. Please, can we just get back to normal?" His voice was pleading, innocent, and John just nodded, wrapping his jacket around his son's thin frame.

"Let's get you safe first, Dean. Then we'll worry about normal."

John glanced behind Dean, wondering where he had come from, what had happened. He couldn't focus on it. He needed to focus on the son that was right in front of him instead of the dead man rotting away. "We're only a mile or so from the entrance of this road. Can you make it?"

Dean nodded once, wrapping the jacket tighter around his body as he coughed once, the determined look back on his face. "I can make it."

He was having trouble walking, and John wondered if he had new injuries. _Of course he has new injuries; he was with a monster_ he berated himself, finding himself watching his son more and more instead of paying attention to the road.

For all their searching, the cops didn't find John and Dean until they were almost back at the base. John heard the rustling as the black-vested team came out of the woods, yelling at them and scaring Dean as they shoved their guns up and forced Dean to watch his father being shoved into the mud.

"No!" he protested weakly as one of the men reached out for him. "Dad-"

"Dean, you're okay. Just go with them. We'll get this sorted out then," John grunted, eyes on his son. Dean nodded again, not fighting the cop who reached for him again.

"Dean?" the cop whispered.

"I'm fine. Follow the road down to the first cabin; he's dead."

"Are you okay?"

"I just said I'm fine. I'm soaking wet, and shit happened, but I just said I was fine. Can my dad get up off the road now? I'd really like to go."

"Okay. Yes, your dad can get off the ground." The cop smiled, but Dean didn't return it.

"I just want to go," Dean said, looking down the road. "Don't touch me, just let me go."

Detective Lewis stared at the body of Allen Albright, being careful not to touch the stiff body. "You finally got what you deserved, you sick bastard. Finally."

"Sir?" Lewis looked up at CSI. "We're ready to start."

"I'll just get out of your way, then," he replied, smirking at the body. "Finally."


	9. Chapter Nine: End

**Title: **Six Weeks

**Author: **S.N. Brown

**Disclaimer**: Not Kripke. Don't own. 'Nuff said?

**Summary: **Six weeks and one day, he thought bitterly, and nothing had changed. There was no news, never any news. His brother was still missing, and his hope was still waning.

**Author's Notes:** This is the end! Enjoy!

**Nine: Dead**

John watched his son sleep, wondering how many times he had done it since this whole ordeal had started. Wondered how many times he had seen his son hurt, pained. Wondered how many times he had watched doctors fix Dean, just to have his son break again. Wondered how long it would take for the scars to heal.

John watched and wondered. He listened to the sound of the heart monitor, a welcomed, steady beat that told him _he's alive_ and let him watch his son breathe, in and out, in and out, still alive.

There were bruises around his neck. Bruises that were finger shaped and deep purple, nearly black. Bruises that formed a band around his neck and dipped into his t-shirt, bruises that screamed _someone tried to kill me_.

His knuckles were scuffed, skin broken and cuts scabbed over. Dean said it was from slamming _The Man_ back into the wall, the final time that had killed him. His cast had been redone-again-but the sling was left off. On his other hand, his middle finger was swollen and bruised, four small stitches on one side from where the doctors had to put a pin in it after _The Man_ had twisted it.

His scores of bruises didn't end there. His chest was a myriad of boot-shaped bruises, and John would kill Allen Albright for the damage he had inflicted onto his son had Dean not done it by himself.

Detective Lewis told John that Allen Albright died of blunt force trauma caused by the force of his head hitting the wall when Dean stopped the man from strangling him. He was assured that the murder was seen as self-defense by both the police department and the district attorney's office; there weren't going to be any charges filed against Dean.

"Charges? Why would you file charges against my son?" John had asked, completely dumbfounded. Sam was watching over his older brother and John had agreed to meet the detective in the cafeteria.

"We aren't. Sometimes, there are, but not under these circumstances. I just wanted to reassure you should you be worried-"

"I wasn't," John said bluntly, effectively ending the conversation.

"Dad?" Dean murmured, eyes opening, a cough scratching his throat.

"Hey, buddy," John answered, ready with a cup of water, letting his son drink a few sips to help ease the irritation in his throat. "Better?"

Dean nodded, eyes closing as he tried to fight off the headache. "He's gone."

John smiled, hand squeezing his son's forearm. "Yeah, he is," he promised. "You did a good job."

Dean didn't answer, hand slipping around the control on the bed to raise it. "How long do I have to stay here?"

"Hopefully another day? Maybe two if we aren't lucky."

Dean didn't reply, and John handed him the cup of water again, watching as his son gulped it down. He knew the throat was irritated, knew that it hurt Dean to talk, to swallow, and John could only imagine that the medicine they gave his son for it didn't help much.

"He's dead, right? I didn't just imagine it?"

They hadn't talked about Allen Albright since John had found Dean. Dean hadn't wanted to talk, and John didn't press the issue. He had heard the details about the death, knew the basic story, but Dean didn't want to talk about killing a man, and John was okay with that.

"Yeah, buddy, he's dead. You got him."

He didn't touch his son, fearful of the teenager's reaction. He had had to have a sedative because he didn't want anyone touching him, and it was reminiscent of when they first found Dean.

Dean began sobbing.

At first, John didn't hear it. At first, John didn't see the tears run down his face, and he didn't see how Dean's body shook and trembled. But then the sobs started to get louder, then the sobs started to wreak havoc on Dean's body, and John noticed.

"Dean," he said, his voice as soft and gentle as he could manage. "Son, are you-"

"I killed him," Dean murmured, and John stopped talking, reaching out to place his hand on his son's forearm, surprised when Dean didn't shrug it off, but instead leaned into the touch. "I…he's dead. I killed a man. Not a monster, but an honest-to-God human!"

"No, Dean," John chastised, standing up, standing closer, reaching out to make Dean look at him. "You killed a monster. Someone that kidnaps children and tries to molest them-that is a monster. And he deserved to die. You did the world a favor."

"Get away from me!" Dean shouted, jerking out of his father's grip, anger sifting through his voice. "It's not something good! I killed a person! I was even glad to do that! I killed him with my bare hands! My bare hands!" He stared at his palms, shaking his head. "I'm the monster. I killed a person. And that's never going to change."

"Dean-"

"Go away," Dean muttered, lifting his head up to stare at his father, dropping his hands. "Just go away. I don't want you here anymore."

Sam watched his brother as the car drove the lonely stretch of highway back to Bobby's. Dean's head leaned against the window, his eyes watched the road that passed by, watched the scenery that didn't change, watched anywhere but his father and brother.

Dean was depressed.

Sam wasn't sure that the guilt he felt was over killing the man who had kidnapped and tried to molest him, but rather the fact that he was supposed to protect people and had killed a human. They had always been taught that they were hunters to protect people, and the fact that Dean had taken a life-despite it being the life of a pathetic cretin who didn't deserve to live anyway-made him feel that he had violated hunting rule number one.

Bobby's house was a welcomed sight from the tension that suffocated the Impala, and Sam gratefully left the vehicle, hurrying inside, past his brother and his father, letting out a sigh of relief as he sank onto his bed.

Dean came in a few seconds later, glanced at Sam and sat on his own bed, biting his lip and glaring at the door and looking at Sam and repeating the process.

"What's wrong?" Sam finally asked.

"I thought you would be lecturing me," Dean said. "After all Dad's said, and all…I thought you would be lecturing me."

"And what point would that make? Even if I lecture you, you're still going to feel like crap, and lecturing you might just make it worse. So…I'm not even going to touch it. You tell me when you're ready, and I'll listen, but I'm not going to lecture you," Sam promised. "You've had too much of that, anyway."

The psychologist they had made Dean see before he had been discharged had lectured Dean. He had told him that he shouldn't feel guilt, and he hadn't even tried to understand _why_ Dean felt like he did.

John had lectured Dean. He knew the hunting rules, knew the importance of human life, and he still didn't see that to Dean, taking life was horrible. He didn't see that his son was in agony because of that.

But Sam saw it.

"I know what you're feeling," he continued. "I know you think it was wrong for you to kill him. But what if I had been his target? You would have killed him in a heartbeat for me. You wouldn't have cared-for me, you would have done it."

"You aren't me, Sam. You're my little brother. I'm supposed to protect you."

"And you were just protecting yourself. It was either you or him, and you chose you. There's no harm in that."

"I killed him."

"And he would have killed you if you hadn't. Do you _see_ your neck? Those aren't caused by something harmless, Dean. He was intent on _killing_ you," Sam answered. "He was intent on killing my big brother. Guess what? I'm happy he's dead. He terrorized you for months, he's hurt you and made you scared. And now he's gone."

Dean let out a sound, a half-whimperish sound that Dean three months before would have never let out, and Sam sighed, knowing he'd gone too far. He had promised no lecture, but that was what his brother got. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I told you…no lectures. But, I am proud of you, okay, big brother? I don't care about the guilt and the rules-you did good."

"I think we see it as two completely different things," Dean muttered, laying back on his bed.

"Well, I think once you have some time, you'll see it like it is," Sam joked, standing. "I'm going to get something to drink. You want?"

"Water."

Sam nodded, leaving the room. Bobby and his dad were in the kitchen, cleaning their guns. "You're leaving?"

"The threat is gone, Sam," John answered.

"Um, have you seen him? It's not gone! It's sitting right on his shoulders, threatening to cut him off at the head, Dad! He's blaming himself! And you aren't going to help by going off and leaving us alone again!" Sam shouted, shaking his head. "He needs you! He needs you to stay here and help him through his guilt, because _you_ are the one that taught him how valuable a human life is! You need to be the one to tell him that sometimes, a human life isn't valuable, it's destructive! He needs you to stay."

"I have to go, Sam."

Sam gripped the glass he was holding tightly, watching his father turn his back on his son, and his anger overflowed, and the glass went flying, smashing into the wall near his father's face. John turned back around, angry, and began stalking towards his son. "You are going to regret that, boy."

"No, I'm not. But you are going to regret what's going to happen if you walk out that door tonight. Because if you do, I'll call Child Services all on my own. I'll do it, I promise you," Sam threatened quietly. "You lost Mom, but can you stand losing both of us? Because if you leave us here tonight, you will be losing us. I'll make sure of it."

"You wouldn't," John breathed out.

"I would do anything for my brother, and if you won't help him, then I won't let him stay here. You created this mess, you need to fix it."

"Samuel-"

"You are the one that told him it was our job to protect everyone. You're the one that told him it was our duty to save as many people as we could. It doesn't matter if they're ax murderers or innocent kids; you taught us that that didn't matter! And now he's taking that to heart, Dad…so go talk to him before it's too late."

John stopped walking, dropping his bag. "Sam-"

"Just fix what you broke, Dad. That's all I ask," Sam whispered, and John nodded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, Sam, ok."

John knocked on the door to Dean's room once before entering. His son was curled up on the bed, arms wrapped around Rumsfeld. "Can I talk to you?" he asked, surprised when Dean let out a breath, his chest rising and falling once, but didn't respond. "All right, then. You know this isn't your fault, right?"

"Some guy is dead because of me."

"Better some guy than my son, Dean," JOhn whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "IF he had killed you, I don't think I would…I wouldn't survive. Sam wouldn't survive."

"It still didn't give me any right. Maybe I could incapacitated him-"

"And maybe he would have gotten the advantage. Maybe he would have strangled you until you died. I know I told you that you have to value humans because if you don't, you will lose your humanity in this business. But Dean, I never meant for that to seem like you should value someone else over yourself." He reached out his hand, resting it carefully on Dean's shoulder, expecting a flinch, surprised when his son didn't move. "You should value yourself, and I don't know why you don't."

"WHy should I when no one else does?" Dean snapped, twisting so he could glare at his father. "You certainly don't. _The Man_ didn't. Bobby just thinks I'm some…kid. Dad, Sam is the only one that has, and he's just a kid. So no, I don't value myself. I value others. And you're little speech…it doesn't change a thing."

"Well, maybe I was wrong."

Dean stopped moving, stopped talking. "What?"

"I was wrong. You matter more than some molester. You matter more than some person on the street, Dean. You are _my _son-one of the only reminders I have of my wife, and my anchor when things go south. So yes, you matter. You are of value. And you shouldn't ever feel any different," John said, hand once again finding Dean's shoulder. "So, I don't want to hear any more of the fact that you killed a man. You killed someone who was _harming _you. You deserved to live. You deserve to get over this. And you deserve to not feel guilty."

"I took someone's life."

"And if you hadn't, he would have taken yours'. And then someone else's. And someone else's. You shouldn't have had to do it, to take someone's life, but it doesn't make your's any less valuable because you did society a favor. So stop wallowing in your grief-you shouldn't have any."

"Okay," Dean agreed. "Okay."

"Good. Now can I go on my hunt without your brother threatening to call Social Services?"

Dean quirked his head. "Sam threatened to call the cops unless you came and talked me out of my funk?" He smiled, shaking his head. "I'll make a hell of a hunter out of him yet."

John nodded, smiling as well. "I'll come check in on you when I get back, okay? You rest up."

"And you get your demon. And thank you for helping me fight mine."

John nodded again, patting his shoulder. "All right. Sam has your medicine, just rest, okay, bud?"

Dean was already asleep again.

"You talked to him," Sam said when John opened the door after his very successful hunt.

He dropped his equipment, a little startled. "Yeah, I did talk to him."

"I didn't want to threaten you. But Dean-"

"I understand, Sam." John sat beside his youngest, both of them staring at the black tv screen. "Thank you, by the way. Thanks for…for putting us back on track."

Sam nodded once, but didn't answer.

He didn't need thanks. Dean had been the one that held him together with an absentee father and a dead mother. Dean was the one that made sure he got to stay in school for as long as possible, Dean was the one that made sure he had ample time to do his homework. Dean was the one that saved him from his father's merciless criticism, even if it mean that Dean took the criticism himself.

He owed Dean everything.

He could do this one little small thing for Dean instead.


End file.
